The Good Dream
When she gets in the car, she’s groggy.
She keeps asking how I managed
to wake her—as if there was some trick
to it—and we laugh about the spectacle
of the hospital gown, its dangling ties,
where do they go and what good
are they anyway? We commiserate
about the cold, which was pervasive,
and the nurses who surely self-medicate.
We both decide the doctor looked as if
he’d just backed into a hot stove.
It was all over so quickly. She’s going
to be OK, the doctor said—and then
seemed insistent—the only moment
that caused pause. As if I’d ever argue
with good news. She's alive! The sky is blue.
Outside, spring’s bounty. We drive to 7/11
for Slurpees. We have trampoline feet.