Night Nurse at the Emporium

Before my father died
I met his nurse who told me
he did not know the imminence
of his demise, and this—he must
—she assured me—realize.

At the moment, my father, 87
was trying to unravel
the cellophane from a double corona,
so I asked the smoker of big cigars,
“What do you intend to do with that?”

“What do you think?” he said too weak
to bring the thing closer, “You know,”
I said, “there’s no smoking here,” but
he had already drifted off, and once
asleep, I returned to the night nurse

who had been standing in the hall
observer and observed, and wanted 
to know if I had spoken to him—
my father—about her reality; I didn’t
of course, not having the heart for it

and asked, “Wouldn’t that knowledge
lead him to despair and hasten his death?”
She disagreed, and shook her head, 
“He must accept his condition. He thinks
he’s in—in—a cigar—”

“Emporium?” I asked. “Yes,” she said,
“Something like that,” and I noticed
her eyes were dark, her face pasty,
she could have been death itself 
for all her worry. “He won’t listen to me,”

and I looked past her and saw he had
come around again and was back to fiddling 
with his cigar wrapper. He looked at me 
and said, “I’m leaving,” and when I asked 
where, he pointed to the stars out his window.