Last Man on a Long Hall

Since my voice is
not your voice and your voice is
dialed way down, other

voices they'll just
have to do. After supper,
they line us up down

the hall like two
batteries of siege mortars
faced off against one

another. Our
wheelchairs locked in place, we wait
while they go bleeding

from room to room
turning down our cool covers,
creating perfect

little people-
sized pocket protectors. Then
they start at one end

or the other
(tonight I get to go last),
our dreams in plastic

cups. Some ask, "Had
enough?" meaning the water.
My aide's from Haiti,

almost as frail
as I am. “Ready for bed?”
she whispers. And though

her voice is not
your voice and it's really not
a question, I bow.