The
Hospital
Is
A
Pretty,
Pale
Green
City.
In
The
Surgery
Waiting
Room,
I sit
With
Others,
Each
Holding
A
Clear
Plastic
Bag
Containing
Folded
Clothes
And
Covers.
Glances
Roam
To
The
Latticed
Electronic
Status
Board,
Which
Tracks
Forward
The
Number
Of
Our
Beloved
From
Procedure
To
Recovered,
When
We
Can
Bear
Them
Home.
I amuse
The
Two
Year
Old
Daughter
Of
A
Stranger
With
My
Phone,
One
Floor
Up,
My
Own
In
Danger.