Standing
at the foot
of the evangelists bed

glancing shyly
into her sleeping face
&
burgundy flames
of her uncombed
hair

I look around
at the
residents, waiting
for something
that never comes

I look back at her
thinking
what else to do here
but sleep

Its been years
since I’d been
in a place
this void
of expectation

its unique smell
of antiseptic
death reaching
out into its clean
orbit of barely used
sidewalks.

Some people
won’t visit
places
like this…

as even I begin
wanting
to walk out
she
stirs

wipes her nose

sees me

compels me sit
along the edge of her bed

we hold hands

this woman
who years ago
drew a cross
in olive oil
on my mother’s
forehead

& called in favors
from jesus
who at that time
would not take them

how can I repay her
for that  generous moment
beyond being here,
now, holding what
she offers—the cool skin
of her hand, a type of leather
glove no one makes any longer

95 now, she says—

she anoints herself
my godmother

lays down
in stories
a winning hand
of names, memories

more
lucidly alive
& present than
folks at my job

at one point
I laugh

the woman
in the next bed
is stirred—snatches the dividing
curtain up
as if skirt checking
virgins

she stares at me

but
it is a gaze
I cannot return

she
drops the panel

starts
moaning blues
for bob

bob

in her throat
a name as death
rattle

bob

standing out there
in the hallway
drinking and cussing
&  won’t come
in

bob, where are you

bob, come home

your dinner is here with us
take your
place, bob

bob she says  all is forgiven

come on in

from the hallway

bob,  bob

oh shut up, my friend says

sneering in disgust
at even the curtain
separating us

she grips my arm
tight.  tighter!

as if to protect me
from falling in
to whatever pit
that womans
mind now
lathers

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