The Passing of the Remote
The nurse called me to pick up some items.
She’d meet me outside the emergency room
to give me that universal remote with which
you last watched Rizzoli and Isles.
On your last trip on that gurney,
when I thought you’d be returning,
you clutched it in your swollen fingers,
unseen by me or the ambulance drivers.
I laughed with the nurse when she handed me
the plastic bag, jumped into my car to get home
to wait for the call to pick you up again
in time, I hoped, to watch our nightly Jeopardy.
Now all my images are scrambled.
Channels change when screens go dark.
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