Timothy Cook

Mario Marconi

Marquita the second floor CNA
tells me that you died of a heart attack,
that Carol the nightshift RN
ignored the call light. On the carpet
urine and bowel movement stains.

Although you had trouble walking,
had to rest every ten feet or so,
every day you’d squat knuckles
to knees like a silverback
on a bench in the lobby,

smiling as if sitting
at Buckingham Fountain,
mist spraying your face,
rose bushes over your shoulder.
Urine and bowel movement stains.

Top ’o the morning to you, I’d say,
putting my hand to my temple,
tipping an imaginary cap
if as I walked through the lobby
you were singing Tura-Lura-Lural.

You’d sometimes stop me,
ask who I’d rather fuck:
Nora the social services director
or Marisol from medical records.
Probably Marisol. On the carpet.