I sat on a bench in the hospital
Courtyard, drinking a mocha latte,
And wondering why people
Are so unhealthy, in such
Constant need of medical intervention.
I was waiting for my wife,
Who was having some kind of test,
And I began to weep, but silently,
So the man a few feet away
Wouldn’t give me a look.
Wouldn’t think there had been bad news,
Or even death.
What would my wife think if she came
At that moment, that I had
Lost control of my faculties?
That she’d have me on her hands
For how many years?
Bursting into tears over nothing.
Feeling profoundly sad every
Time I looked around.
But I was thinking about the
Woman being pushed in a wheelchair,
And the man moving slowly
Along with the aid of a cane,
And I thought about our dog,
Lying in her favorite place
On her bed in a corner of the room.
I have never heard her complain
Although she is getting old,
And the time will come when
My wife and I will look at each other and say,
Is it time? Will we arrive at that point
Through a rational process,
Through reasoned discussion,
Or will we be smothered in
Bursts of feeling, the kind
That come over you without warning,
The kind of truth that we foolishly bury,
Believing that it will never
Be dug up.
© Dennis Hathaway
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