Patients crowd my dreams
demanding to be seen
and saved.
When I work, they clog
the waiting room and die
in hallways.
At the beginning of the pandemic,
we began observing a moment
of silence each time someone died.
I usually placed my hand
upon their shoulders
and thought this was a life.
Last week, when a woman’s heart
stopped outside of CAT scan,
a nurse straddled
the gurney and started pumping
her chest. It didn’t work.
Well shit, the nurse said,
now I’m all sweaty.
No one stopped or bowed
their head.
Today, in the winter woods,
only the deer’s split
tracks mar the mud-strewn path.
The trees sway with the knife-
edged wind and creak
like rusted hinges.
Around the bend, two swans
paddle in a January pond.
The dog gallops ahead—
where the boulder bears a coat
of moss—his tail a white flag
waving surrender.