Hospital Vigil
While doctors operate, striving to save Pete’s life,
I walk a windowless corridor—no clocks,
surely past midnight—find the neurosurgery
waiting room, open the door and stop,
ambushed by aromas of Sunday dinner.
A family eats, rosary beads slid wordlessly,
chairs and loveseats pulled around a table
spread with fried chicken in a bucket,
quarts of slaw, baked beans, mashed potatoes.
Plastic cutlery and napkins sealed in packets
like surgical instruments. A stranger offers me
a paper plate, bland as a communion wafer,
inviting me to sit down with them, break
bread, pray this picnic won’t become a wake.
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