My drive to his flight is filled with oldies
on the box, making me sad and happy
for a time I was not happy but liked
better than now. At the grim garage, I
pocket my parking stub and touch my breast
by accident. My heart ticks like the time
clock for the ticket my baby will be
some day, punching in late but arriving
safe. I’ve been behind a truck of worthless
men and could not pass for fear of loneliness.
Let’s be honest: my heart’s a canary
in yellow-bellied flight whose songs are cheap
but kind. I escalate into arrivals
where he’ll walk through a gate numbered dumbly
with my age. The men will file up the ramp
with limp briefcases. I’ve seen this before.
While I wait, an enormous man goes down
clutching his left arm. A child screams and runs.
Orange jumpsuits come, glistening with hardware
and good intentions, triggering his feet
to jump as if he’d been tickled or scared.
But his body won’t be tricked and stays dead.
His mind might still be racing or might be
nothing at all. A crowd gathers to watch
the dead man. We thank him with our presence
for his contribution to our lives. Good
to be alive. Not me. There but for the grace.
No matter, when my donor friend arrives,
I hope his scrotum hums with tiny fish.