Memorial

Somewhere in the 
    lamp-lit dark of
this hospital parking lot
    aye, yes, the hospital I was
born at, a killdeer
    beseeches the night.
It’s got a nest to protect
    a shallow scrape, it’ll
break a wing if it must.

Ambulances come & go.
    For a moment, leaf smoke wafts
while LEDs burn bright
    and it’s quiet, even peaceful.
The beer helps, engines idle.
    A wind sock lit in orange
dangles lazily on the
    hospital roof in a 
mild November breeze.

The night shift leaving in threes
    makes me nostalgic for exit.
Leaves litter the grass below a
    healthy-looking ash.  
The ash gleams leafless
    in this blue-white 
hospital parking lot light.

The first time I was here I
    arrived safe in my mother’s belly.  
Dad had just finished mowing the grass.
    Now I remember.  Even when I can see forward
that forward is never enough.

I awake at two-something in a 
    start.  Is that Mom, coming out?
A tall woman in boots, headed this way,
    unmistakable, alone.  Dad
on a bed somewhere inside.  I rifle through
    my pockets in search of keys;
she is only getting closer.  I find 
    them under me, hit the button,
clamber out of the back seat to greet her and

take her away along empty streets
    to the place we all called home.