Morning in the Surgical Waiting Area

We drove through darkness, sky spread thick

with constellations, stories of immortals

stolen by artificial light. Now this glare

installed without thought of our need to move

slowly toward illumination—to witness faces

tired as ours, magazines crumpled by multitudes,

furniture scuffed and dull, burdened by so much

waiting. For as long as possible we delay

closing our eyes, moments when blindness

renders us better listeners. Around the room

lullabies hum, names of patients called

to endure another kind of sleep.

I love you…I love you…I love you

trails like stars falling, landing lightly

on our laps, scattering our histories,

legends of mortals left in our keeping.