I climb up from the metal bed,
step out of the room, away from the rattle
of air that only flows one way,
pad down the hall in paper slippers,
paper mask and gown, a network of tubes
connecting my chest and the IV cart,
humming and trailing me like a kid brother.

Friday night on 9 South, and all doctors
have torn themselves away.
Lights dimmed, walls muted blue—
a cabaret, a supper club for the sick
and the terminal. Twice a day
I circulate, careful to note the remaining
names, many unreadable,
most unknown to me.
A tall narrow window boasts
a bird's-eye view of the half-empty lot
and, beyond, the promise
of the unbroken yellow line.

The nurses' station is deserted
save Pam, scribbling on a lined pad.
Her pen is tattooed with glow-in-the-dark hearts.
She's going through the motions
of leaving—coat folded in her lap,
cooler at her feet. "What's up?"
she says and scratches something out.
I want to disappear, go home in her hair.
Canned laughter rises from a small TV.

The blue light over the room next to mine
screams like a siren. She leaps up and follows
the stampede of powder blue,
starched white and stethoscopes.
I too take a step then touch my mask
and am reminded of my place.
I tilt my head as though to hear
the barked instructions, the fading heart.