Dean Asleep

Here is my friend:
slack, soul turned inward
betrayed by blood
and he is now apart from the world
in a cocoon of grace, the white sheets,
and the strange cold key of machines
their pumps and whirs, the pulse
of birdsong bleating
he's losing weight spendthrift,
can hardly afford it
he is on the tracks, facing down the years
facing down another lifetime
before his wife, his child,
his ordination
facing down the past of desserts, cigars
and coffee,
of hard liquor and bad drugs,
of a tough Norwegian father,
and the years of wanting.

I can see him asleep, even though
the door to his room is closed.

He has staff; he'd be gratified.
Code Blue twice,
and they give him a girl with a sequined
sweater, and a laptop,
on a desk with wheels. She watches only,
she's in Continuity.
As a theater man he'd understand.
Her job is to watch.

I sing and sing.
I hold his hand, and though God
is his co-pilot, I only know standards.
Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly.

I kiss his hands, which I've never done,
would never do.
I love him and love him, and hope
he will wake.