We have four hours.
He has been up since six.
He is reading a novel by Steinbeck.
He never keeps track of the titles.
He says they remind him
of unpaid bills, the jobs
that changed from state to state.

I am allowed two keys,
my driver’s license, cigarettes,
loose paper money in a transparent bag,
ten snapshots of the duck pond
at different angles because
he wants something
innocuous from his past.

He mentions he is
eating well. He is trying to recall
his dreams for an inmate who once
practiced medicine illegally
in another country. I hum
a tune about dancing alone.
I promise to be back.

Here is the future
on the wall: Only one hug
when you first meet and one more
when it is time to leave.
His sentences always end with
I’m sorry. I hold his hand
where everyone can see it.