We Are Doing Rounds 

I enter the CCU two paces behind

your suited legs, your classic loafers

squeak, remind me of the elephant

stories you tell before bed. 

And I won’t think on death,

but notice that smell I’m glad

to leave.  If it had a name,

you wouldn’t let me say it. 

The old people look similar,

their faces drooping like hush

puppies.  You tell me who is Mrs.

Harrison and she squeezes my hand,

says you saved her

heart, again. The man

behind the curtain

brings us chips

at Christmas, a tin

filled with salted crisps. 

In the EKG lab, you value

peaks. Someone’s beat charted

in ink, an arc toward normalcy.

I want to draw these people

hearts, but they always turn

out the same. 

Flat as valentines. 

The one on your desk falls

apart, a ventricle at a time.

You place it in my hands,

twist the chambers open,

two cold lobes drop.