Green Room

They had, one would guess, brought the helicopter
in on account of hope that all was not irrevocably
lost on the office kitchen floor, that resuscitation amid
coffee pot shards by strangers in paramedic yellow coats
was merely Step One to Sitting Up, altogether again

with working heart, inflatable lungs, apologetic
about all the fuss, the broken cup, shattered carafe,
assurances, once he caught a second wind,
he'd replace the wrong done.  One of them had to laugh,
and his laugh let the others smile about whose mouth
had saved his mouth and Cancel-The-Medi-Vac-Jocularity

might have been the way, instead of hopeless rotors
lifting him off to that hopeless place where staff
awaited their turns to emote - from Chaplain
to ER nurse, attending physician (He Who
Pronounced) - their audience was me.

White jackets, green scrubs, suffocating. 
A rehearsed Gravity as if sympathetic, they
began to inform (as they should; as this part is in
their Job Descriptions), this mute, this CPR Dummy
who stands on thick legs, sand-filled (Widows Wobble

But They Don't Fall Down) chest, a bomb wired
to the aorta, ticking, ticking.  Seven thousand
nights ago, in a green staging room where
no natural light finds the dark.  And two doors away,
him - no apologies/assurances, no promises made.

.