Galileo, Galileo
I hoped I'd never get this page:
Your patient jumped out the window.
They are resuscitating him downstairs.
By downstairs, anon meant sidewalk
flecked with gum, shining like mica
blood like thrown art
where a Zeus dethroned learned
clouds are less dense
and sidewalks denser
than flesh.
In fifth grade science, we made homes for five story eggs.
We made omelets on the sidewalk.
I had just talked to him.
He combed his scraggly beard
and asked for an apple.
I forgot to tell the nurse
or dietician, or cafeteria.
Five children, that's what struck me.
In the debriefing, the piano tie said
sometimes five children
is five too many.
Galileo, Galileo.
He tossed the chair first
then became the chaser.
Arms spread eagle, his roommate said,
hair in long ropes ascending
hospital gown parachute.
Why didn't you stop him? I ask.
The roommate shrugs
and my voice cracks.
Wish I noticed something the day we met,
Wish he had mentioned a chorus of voices
or had a loaded gun.
How could it be? Like fate like gravity
any response of apology or guilt wanting.
You wrestle my pager from me,
tell me to go home.
Galileo, Galileo.
Good night.
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