Night Nurse

Lately we invite this stranger into our home

to watch over, like an angel or good dog,

                our son.

But she is not angelic, not graceful, her slippers

flopping like sad clown shoes. And it’s wrong

to compare this nurse to a dog, especially

that kind of dog: trusted, beloved. We need her

so we hate her, even though it is—must be—our fault

she’s here

—he is our son—

so we give

instructions and thanks before quarantining

in our room

where we sourly purse our eyes

toward sleep while she is paid

to guard our son against

that more familiar stranger, who should have

no business with a child,

not now, not here. But endings

are always near. Passing our door, her steps

sound too like anxious foot-tapping, strangers

impatient to leave with

what they’ve come to collect.