Driving Home, 2:30 a.m.

This is the beauty of on call, I decide,
as I turn east before I head north:
what must be the moon looks like the sun,

confused and unsure of when it's supposed
to be showing itself. Too large for a moon,
I say, as I look at the chin, glowing burnt

orange, a black funeral veil concealing
most of the visage. The city is hushed
and unhurried, most of the houses darkened

now, the neon lights of industry glowing
though no one lurks the halls or frequents
the bathrooms. It is enough to sustain me

on my drive home. I don't need coffee.
I need to know the man in room 27,
lying there in the bright lights of trauma,

is going to get help, is going to come back home
to those he loves and those who love him,
is going to be the man he was before all the death

and loss, before the changes that define him now,
before he felt himself slipping into a place
he cannot name, a place he does not want to be,

a place he hopes he can leave. My hope lies
in the silence, in the 19 degrees of cold, in the slightest
bit of light this frigid night offers, spreading out

in the blackness, willing itself to be seen.