A STROLL DOWN SUMMER

Two orderlies are taking an old man
on a stroll down Summer, one pushing

his chair, the other rolling an oxygen bottle
behind her as they walk, at the stately

pace one might take poling a raft down a lazy
river. In their ward there is no rushing

about, as in ER; no sudden panic
punctuates their days, as it does for colleagues

in Psych. And so they slowly stroll
down Summer, unscrolling the cemetery's

wrought iron fence as they go, absorbing
sun's warmth through lavender clothes. In the graveyard

sunlight leaks through enmeshed leaves
of centenarian hardwoods, spring lilac

blossoms are brown and around broken stones
in orderly rows, the grass is freshly mown.