Shall We Gather at the River?
The plastic hospital curtain
segregated our miseries
like a reluctant stream.
On my side of the deluge
I lay in bed, testing the waters.
My roommate waded
wraith-like around the divider,
skeletal legs protruding
under his hospital gown.
He looked past me
through the window toward
the forest preserves across the street.
His speaker phone jack-
hammered against the beige
shoals of our sterile fraternity
like a pneumatic drill against
river pilings as he raged against
the nurses and the hospital,
“Look for my body on the
banks of the Des Plaines River.”
This wasn’t the baptism
I was seeking, the resurrection
I aspired to. Wanting to escape,
I beseeched the nurses,
“I fear the flood that’s coming.”
No Exit
The 30 foot Lincoln
stretch limo idles
at the corner.
The chauffeur puffs
on his cigarette.
He’s moved around
the country all his life,
an army brat.
Now he works
part-time on
the weekends.
He’s taking a bunch
of buddies out for a
night on the town.
The engine hums
while his friends
wait for him
in a nearby bar.
He nods without listening
as a homeless man
panhandles him again.
Crushing the cigarette
butt under his boot heel,
he locks all the limo doors
with his wireless fob,
tosses a torn dollar in
the offering cup.
Circulation
He opens the front door
to let in fresh air as
lightning flashes fracture
the dark tree-shadowed lawn.
Four years rumble through
his memory, echoing long
thoughts about his brother.
He liked this kind of weather.
Thunder rattles through
the screens of open windows,
daring him to close them.
A late storm batters
the shingled roof,
blows his angry
tears across the porch.
Moths flare up
against the porch light
seeking refuge. Tired after
grieving his brother, he closes
the door, locks the windows.