Admit

By Sara Kandler

Valet parking, thank God

steady now

glass doors, sign-in line, Covid check

we’re good

we’re fine

find a wheelchair

hands grip tight

tell graveyard jokes

in fight or flight

me in my bold print dress

flying along

you in your sporty sweats

one arm out strong

a lifeline from the second floor

dangling

the carousel’s golden ring

Get admitted like it’s Harvard

no ruby tee or ivied yard

but endless beige and sallow walls

bland maze of musty stalls

floor sweepers, bed changers, pulse takers

injectors, inspectors

in green or blue color-coded costumes

never once explained to you

then the leads dash through drab curtains

bleached white pockets

cursive names

say hey there, Sam or Jane

no shame

sling shot slung around the neck

hearing hearts, scanning charts

giving orders, signing off

Ninety, sure, but I don’t see why

he would say no to giving chemo a try

there’s no guarantee (I’m not gonna lie)

he could surprise us all

teach class again this fall

sunlight jars

fumes from the car

fold you in

after journeying far

to a clinical galaxy

me, your novice proxy

and settle you home

too often alone

long mahogany table

newspapers strewn

glasses, meds, radio

a tall mug of decaf tea —

It was worth it, Dad, see?

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