Lately we invite this stranger into our home
to watch over, like an angel or good dog,
                                                                          our son.

But she is not angelic, not graceful, her slippers
flopping like sad clown shoes. And it’s wrong

to compare this nurse to a dog, especially
that kind of dog: trusted, beloved. We need her

so we hate her, even though it is—must be—our fault
she’s here
                   —he is our son—
                                                  so we give

instructions and thanks before quarantining
in our room
                      where we sourly purse our eyes

toward sleep while she is paid
                                                      to guard our son against
that more familiar stranger, who should have

no business with a child,
                                            not now, not here. But endings
are always near. Passing our door, her steps

sound too like anxious foot-tapping, strangers
impatient to leave with
                                           what they’ve come to collect.