Waiting
For the man in the Intensive Care Unit waiting room,
Hôpital Notre-Dame, Montréal, June 2012
Some nights I've seen
a slice of silver slink across this room
I now call home,
above my makeshift bed-a rickety chair
beside the snack machine.
Close by, the elevators whirr and beep.
I cannot, dare not, drift asleep,
let down my guard,
inviting shoulder taps, a whispered Sir,
or dreams of her
once-vivid eyes that stare & stare & stare,
dull, distant, hard.
Thus I will will her through another day.
Make crazy compromises. Pray.
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