Bleeping EKG. Metal bed
rails locked. Long green
hospital socks slipping
from shin to ankle. Catheter
hidden under a towel
because in this 24
bed county hospital – down
the pike from Carnival Foam
& Rubber – urine
is an embarrassment. Outside
the factory where they press
deck plugs & industrial
strength face shields,
dogwood petals float
like ripped silk in late day
light. Polyurethane fumes
spin invisibly. I spot
a big-rig on Gallatin Pike;
its rumble vibrates the purple
plastic tumbler on Dad’s dietary
tray. I am listening for his last
agonal gasp. I always wanted
to be the ideal daughter. The hospital
monitor goes flat. I cannot count
his inhales & exhales. With blossoms,
the wider world unfurls.