All day they ride the long metal box up the gleaming side
of the hospital. Rags in a plastic washtub. Squeegees
and a trough of soapy water. Below, the sidewalk fenced off,
the upturned faces gawking as they rise, ratcheting up
to the next row of windows. A man sits on a bus stop bench
and watches them work until he is ready to go in and see
what’s become of his father. A man he some days comes close
to loving. He has traveled a long way to get here. He’s the only
one who is coming. He will sit by his father’s bed in the ward
and wait for a face to appear in the window. Wet and squinting
under a white cap. He will wait for the suds to blot out the light.
The furious churning on the other side. The soap rinsed away
as someone works the ratchet. Chest. Knees. Sneakers. Sky.