Three in wheelchairs, two on beds.
Research subjects on hard chairs,
bellies measured, weight recorded.
Everyone waiting for the door to swing open —
that high-pitched ring of machines
making the room hold its breath
each time.
On the walls: two posters.
This is PCI on calcified arteries.
This is how the balloon is guided into place.
The evolution of stents.
As if knowing the diagram
would make the waiting easier.
He came out with a surgical mask on his face —
black, with hearts on it,
the ones I bought during Covid.
Eyelids scrunched against the white light.
I almost felt the five of us
swearing off french fries forever,
making silent lists:
avocado. leafy greens.
green tea, green tea.
Or maybe it was just me.
───
I forgive myself for leaving his bedside.
Let him rest.
Do things in love, not in fear.
But maybe they are the same thing.