Of all the times he’s been

in the hospital dating back

in his memory to the bowl

of ice cream to sooth his

super sore throat after he

counted bricks as the ether

was poured onto the cloth

and over his nose and mouth

when he was six to the time

as a teenager having surgery

to bring a testicle down to

the scrotum where it belonged

and of which he could not

speak at his high school and

then as an AARP member

to the ICU unit for three

days’ observation after

crushing thirteen bones in

a really stupid mountain

biking accident, what he

remembered most were

not visits from high-priced,

really busy, as they wanted

him to appreciate, physicians

or the obligatory questions

from officious nurses who

spent most of their time at

the desk writing reports and

telling black hospital humor

to pass the time, but, rather

the nurses’ aides who served

the ice cream, gave a horny teen

with a sore scrotum a back rub

and helped him forget, for the

moment, that embarrassing

surgery for a sixteen year

old and a senior citizen a

little, welcome conversation

to help pass the boredom

of the day in the regular

hospital room he was

moved to for four more

days after his three

day stay in the ICU.