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