How small I am compared to America,
a microscopic speck.
Am I here at all?
That’s me, I see, passing down a corridor at four a.m.
So quiet now the world’s asleep.
There’s no bustle, no scuttle, no wait for the elevator.
Just me and a moth, a velvet-winged hawk,
hug the cold wall.
I glide down the passages bearing my past,
a stethoscope, and your fading, jade ring.
I’ve been called to Five North
to save a patient.