The Back of It

He was shuffling down the hall

in that blue-gray gown,

one fist behind him

holding the back closed.

The ties dragged on the linoleum.

He was reading the room numbers

the way you read in a language

you studied once—

carefully,

with a slight delay between

the sign and the meaning.

He stopped at the wrong door.

Stood there for a moment.

A nurse came and pointed him

further down the hall

and he went.

I looked away

somewhere in the middle of it.

I don't know exactly when.

Later, sitting in that waiting room,

I kept thinking about the fist—

how he kept it there the whole time,

tight behind him,

holding something together

that didn't need an audience.