A ****** latex glove.
The rhythmic breathing of a room full of machines
and the dim light glowing on white paper.

Is he your patient?
Well, I guess. But night shift is coming in soon.

We step out into the bright corridor.
You look at me – really look at me -
something grave in your eyes, a great expectation.

Thank you-
I interupt. Merry Christmas.
And something rising and falling and blooming and crumbling between us,
like his chest in that dim light.
A promise.