It’s a clear blue sky, late summer –
in panorama – widescreen – Cinerama –
here from the fourth floor “I see you”
maybe slightly desaturated
by the valley haze or some high, thin clouds, thick
triple-paned windows, tinted nicotine-brown
by design or the elements, inside or out.
It might be hot, but it looks cool enough
here from this sterile, climate-controlled hallway
– a tunnel of sorts –
mostly white or gray, with trim, to be sure,
a beginning at one end an end at the other
but the widescreen light to one side, and the drama, such as it is, to the other.
But this is just a poem, written in retrospect:
You were only thirteen then, you did and didn’t see
all that the moment they told you
she was gone. You hardly registered (as was your way)
the blue amidst
to laugh ––
Three months gone by inside the room,
IV, bedpan, the suctioning of the tracheotomy;
small frame, bruised
nurses, doctors in and out.
While at home: more
TV, movies, friends, solid food,
your bike from here to there,
a glove and cleats, green grass, a glorious championship;
you’ve dropped the baby fat, like magic, Dad’s sober.
And only over time (and with many dreams, and a few poems)
have you discerned the plot line of a life –
the full-frame view –
found your hero’s journey out from
that sterile, purple hallway where you were trapped
the comfortable, killing red
and the choking, guilty widescreen blue.