One Hand Free

The man at the vending machine

was holding his gown shut with his left hand,

pinching the fabric together at the small of his back

the way you'd hold a secret—

firmly, with your whole fist—

and with his right hand he was feeding

a dollar bill into the slot

but the machine kept spitting it back

because the bill was crumpled

and he'd smooth it on his thigh

and try again,

smooth it and try again,

and his calves were bare below the hem,

pale, with dark hair, the skin

puckered from the cold hallway

or from whatever the body does

when it's been horizontal too long

and suddenly has to stand.

He wasn't embarrassed.

That's what I keep thinking about.

He wasn't embarrassed, he was focused

the way a person gets when the task

in front of them is small enough to finish—

get the bill flat, press B4,

wait for the thing to drop.

I was sitting in a plastic chair

bolted to the other plastic chairs,

waiting for my neighbor to be wheeled out

from a surgery that was minor,

everyone kept saying minor,

and I watched this man

and I thought about how a hospital gown

is the most honest garment

ever stitched. It doesn't

pretend to fit. It doesn't

pretend you chose it. The ties

are in the back where you can't reach them

alone, which means someone

had to dress you, which means

you already let a stranger

see the parts of yourself

you'd rather keep

turned toward the wall.

The bill went in.

He pressed the button.

A bag of chips dropped

and he bent to retrieve it

and the gown opened at the back

for a second—just a flash

of spine and the elastic

of his underwear—

and he stood up and walked

back down the hall

holding the chips and the gown

in the same hand now,

both of them

crinkling.