In the seventh
hour of a twelve-hour surgery
I wake from some dispiriting dream.
mid-stroke in a thoracotomy
on a wiry, fortyish Caucasian male.
I've not botched the job.
But to think I might have gives me pause.
am driving home on Lions Gate bridge
at an hour when streets are empty, mostly.
The radio airs a finance program
where two men discuss interest rates.
At one point I nearly fall asleep.
But I manage to wake up just in time.
walking down a tree-lined avenue
some ten blocks off from where I live.
Throbbing music from a party ahead
lulls me into restless sleep.
pass, I'm barraged with beer cans.
But I don't think even one of them hits
At the dining room table J.
a magazine spread beneath her cheek.
Through the curtains
a diffuse light
illumines her hair, the magazine.
In a margin she's written:
I miss you, honey.
But I am old, too old for anything but sleep.
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