Who gets to be lucid
And who comes into the ER in the middle of the night
Screaming wild nonsense about the president, and how he owes him money
There’s a nurse there
In this particular ER
For her
Everything is concrete
Extra-real
The musk of him
The white foam gathering in the corners of his mouth
The clock ticking the wasted time
In the struggle
To obtain vitals
He is at sea
A thousand miles away
Unable to see light on the shore
But she is here with him
In utter realness
Touching the fabric of him
Seeing him in vivid color
And the tight bold lines that carve out his shape
She would rather be
The one with the blood pressure cuff
Than the man at sea
With her smart white coat, clicky pen, and glasses on the end of her nose
So that she can peer at him skeptically
Jot down his failure to “orient to time and place”
She enjoys the steady control
Of knowing that there is no ship
No ocean