Father In Combat

Your heart attacked makes ticking sounds...
a clock, a watch, the spokes on bikes
and countdown bombs in movies.
Then sirens
and a screeching silence.

Every room is a waiting room
because there is no other task to execute.

I listen to coffee in Styrofoam cups,
and drink outdated Time,
and study hummings
only heard in hospitals.

The hours carry certain dire doctors making
dour declarations: It doesn’t look good.

In between announcements,
I wonder at the battle and the blood,
at every tug of war between the instant
and the eon.

Then there is no more waiting,
and no room where I belong.

I push past
and down a hollow hall
to see if it looks good,
this conclusion
of my father’s fight unfair.