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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