:

In the corridor

wheelchairs are parked
for the night. She’s on a late fly-by visit.
It’ll be a quick bedside chat, no walk
in the grounds -- stopping at

the rhododendrons, waiting for a wizened hand
to reach out for a lingering touch. She’ll fiddle
with her keys and he’ll read her like a journal.
He’ll say he’s tired. She’ll kiss him, slink off

like an ebbing tide.