to each a turn

visiting the sick is hard.
for them
for you,

for the nurses.
it's lunch time.

soup. a sandwich.
jello.

a plastic fork, a plastic
spoon.

the smell of antiseptics
clouds
the bright air.

the starch of sheets,
the metal basin, the rail.
the cold
feel
of everything.

I put my card
and a bouquet of flowers
on the tray, then
I look out the window.

I wonder if there is anything
I can catch in here.

I go to the sink and wash
my hands.

so when you getting out, I ask.
but she's asleep,
or unconscious. it's hard
to tell.

I touch her hand. it's warm.
I see the long vines
of blue veins.

I look at the tubes,
the wires all connected to
some hospital brain

somewhere.

i'm not looking forward
to my turn.