Where were you? the nurse asked,
one of three bending over me.
They must know something

about how I hid behind the light.
They wrapped my head in a damp rag,
elevated my feet, trussed my arm

with a blood-pressure cuff,
covered me with two wool afghans
crocheted by the blind ladies.

The cola volunteer pulled up a chair.
He was from Nevada, a missionary,
whose name tag read "Elder."

His smooth face said he couldn't tell me
anything about deity. When he asked if I knew
his church, my mouth opened

but my thoughts and words hung apart
like odd socks on a clothesline.
The elder saw a sheep under those afghans

so he poured me another cup of RC Cola
and handed me a fist full of Oreos.
. . . [Full Text of this Article]