The clock ticks slower than my breath as the nurses crisscross in the hallway.
Midnight streetlights glow far below our hospital room.
Drug addled and weary my bride sleeps in the bed.
My son snores his first snores in the plastic bin crib.
I stare up at the ceiling from the narrow couch.
I’m trying to recall who I was before today.
I’m having trouble.
It seems irrelevant because it is.
Everything has become useless and trivial, save what’s in this room with me now.
The people in the parking lot are but extras, and the nurses.
A new movie has begun and my part for the rest of my life is clearly defined.
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