Spots

Everyone just calls me Tom.  It’s late afternoon

so the CNA pushes me into my spot

in the dayroom, facing away from the television,

and they tie dishtowels around our necks

because dinner will be here soon.  Not soon enough

for that guy with the wrinkled tattoos, in his spot

across the room, who always yells for his food

until the nurses say, like they always do,

they’ll bring it when they bring it. 

And not before this girl from hospice

with the big red heart on her badge asks

if she can visit with me, maybe read a book, do I like to read. 

The best I can do now is mumble “pilots,”

meaning I wouldn’t mind hearing about the days

and the planes I used to fly in—navy fighter, WWII,

San Francisco—but she only gets “pirates”

from my muttering and finds a battered Treasure Island

on the shelf somewhere and starts in, page after page

—doing all the voices, too— probably imagining

she’s all but allowed me to smell the sea air, feel

like a kid again.  But this half smile is only

me waiting for it to stop, wondering

if dinner will come soon and when

will they let me sleep and could I

lift my arms to strangle her?

(Pebble Lake Review, 2006)