THINGS ABOUT DYING

in my home state, now, by law

those leaving us can tread gently: usher themselves towards the light in the dignity they see fit

and i can’t remember all of their names they and i were strangers

but when i heard, i thought of them

like the kind-eyed man in bed ninety-two

slight form wasting beneath thin hospital sheets every morning smiling-hopeful

saying lass, today might be the day week after week, drawing back from the pain turning away

as i quietly brought the breakfast tray in

my friends and i we were all gonna be somebody

back then

every one of us had a hustle, to an end

me, i worked the hospital kitchen to fund the degree

eight hours a day on your feet hot plate burns clocked meal breaks industrial dishwashers that could take hands off (and once did) two-hundred-kilo trolleys to push six days on

three eighteen days to off twenty-three november to march from age

it got me here

but i know things about dying that would haunt your dreams

we were always the first to know down in the plating room

we knew before the doctors did

when the little freckled girl

with the bald head and crooked smile left jelly off her order sheet

the leading hand that afternoon was on salt, pepper and cutlery: she yelled down the line, in a shaky voice

no dessert for bed fourteen

nobody spoke for the rest of meal prep

and after the trolleys were loaded she gave everyone a break

we went outside and passed around cigarettes