Michael Levan Triage

Somehow, he parks in the exact same spot. Somehow, / he walks through the sliding door entrance, past the ER desk, / and to the unit’s station. He asks to be let back to her, / but he will have to wait: just beyond that one last set of doors, / they are on lockdown. Someone has threatened / a guard, or his own life, the man is told.

kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkAnd he
is ready / to bust through, scoop her in his arms, and take her away. / He wonders about that romanticism of this gesture, / the joy he’d have in her telling this story all the years / remaining of their marriage, but he is weak. He follows / the rules, is too straight-laced to do much / of anything except wait like a child to be escorted to her side. / He waits, he lingers, he works the calculus / of what he will say to her demand to come home when clearly / she has not been ready, has not been handling this sickness, has only been / a danger to herself and the other inside her.

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