LatinosUSA

I tell him to sit on the wooden bench,

mimic a still-life while I seek

the doctor who saw him last time.

He murmurs,  «Nothing heals, remains,

except perhaps a few skulls in

the wrong places and the emptiness

stuck in them.» I shake my head

and head toward the pale blue plywood

and mica front desk. A few reporters

still ask around about mishap

in this hospital last week. The dusty road

stands outside with God’s name

on its tongue and an application for alms.

The woman wearing blue, partially hidden

behind a hot and white computer

ignores me. The scent of the antiseptic

cleans everything lingering to my bones.

I turn and see – he is not where I

told him to be. Emptiness buzzes,

and I shoo it away, but it returns

and returns again.