I used to spend time with this guy
in the parking lot of the Queens Borough
AIDS Hospice. I always tried to visit
the losers, the ones who had nobody.
The others would stare as I pushed him
in his wheelchair, face sunken
under a black hoodie, past their rooms,
most of whom, the nurses would say,
wouldn’t last the month. I’d come every Saturday,
take him outside and lighting a Newport,
hold it up to his lips to take a drag.
Afterwards, I’d roll him back to his room
where he’d mutter the same exact two words
like clockwork, ‘thanks, man,’ knowing on my shift,
time being what it was, he wasn’t going
to get another. He had a swath of purple and blue
sores across his face weeping blood and puss
from one ear to the other that I couldn't look at
and yet, I couldn't look away. I’d tell my wife,
in bed at night how he smelled of putrid meat
until she’d roll over, face the wall and scream at me
to shut up. Out on the pavement surrounded by cars,
he’d turn his face up to the sky, sniff the air,
lick his bottom lip, grateful as hell,
as if he knew he’d spent the wad already
in this life and he wasn’t going to get another.
As a volunteer you’d always know
who died since your last shift. There would be
a little placard on the entrance table
with the names of the residents who had passed
that week, printed neatly, one name to a card.
That way you’d know which ones were gone
before you’d get to their empty room.
That one’s dead, ‘thanks, man,’’
that one’s no longer a part of the living.
in the parking lot of the Queens Borough
AIDS Hospice. I always tried to visit
the losers, the ones who had nobody.
The others would stare as I pushed him
in his wheelchair, face sunken
under a black hoodie, past their rooms,
most of whom, the nurses would say,
wouldn’t last the month. I’d come every Saturday,
take him outside and lighting a Newport,
hold it up to his lips to take a drag.
Afterwards, I’d roll him back to his room
where he’d mutter the same exact two words
like clockwork, ‘thanks, man,’ knowing on my shift,
time being what it was, he wasn’t going
to get another. He had a swath of purple and blue
sores across his face weeping blood and puss
from one ear to the other that I couldn't look at
and yet, I couldn't look away. I’d tell my wife,
in bed at night how he smelled of putrid meat
until she’d roll over, face the wall and scream at me
to shut up. Out on the pavement surrounded by cars,
he’d turn his face up to the sky, sniff the air,
lick his bottom lip, grateful as hell,
as if he knew he’d spent the wad already
in this life and he wasn’t going to get another.
As a volunteer you’d always know
who died since your last shift. There would be
a little placard on the entrance table
with the names of the residents who had passed
that week, printed neatly, one name to a card.
That way you’d know which ones were gone
before you’d get to their empty room.
That one’s dead, ‘thanks, man,’’
that one’s no longer a part of the living.