On Sunday morning I showed up
to find you calm and sitting up,
your brown eyes tired but alert
and bright. They told me that it hurt
to move—a wisp of Percocet
in open light. The TV set
was dark and silent. Still you seemed
to stare into an image beamed
across the room. A shadow play.
A mirror into Saturday.
An anesthesia flower show,
it ended when I said, “Hello.”
Roosevelt Hospital, New York City—