This recurring batten-
blue sky against your
yellowing face-
I bring bits of blue
into your room
press them to the walls
with sticky blue tack,
too soon, another
will take your place-
the wallpaper must stay
clean, not ripped
no holes or tears,
for each, this bed
is one last station
one last stop
a waiting room
so far from home
so cold
and not much light
coming in
from the concrete well
that catches not a single
bit of the sun
tossing blue and green
outside right now
while outside here-
clatter of trays
radios, carts,
voices in the hall—
you gesture: close the door—
not yet time
to cock an ear
for the far-off call—
you pull the blue pen
closer
to the page
I steady for your hand

one small blue mark
the blue pen falls