Three Things about Routine Surgery

She is under the knife
inside a maze of hallways.
I could pace, read my phone
and simply be near
in case she suddenly dies or something
(in which case how could I help?)
but no. I walk into rising sun and sit
at a cafe window where a mosquito hawk
with hair-thin feet is testing the glass—
up, down, a barrier, a desire.
Shut out. Like me.

She’s in good hands with shoulder sliced,
a bloody hole where Dr. Eaken
is drilling bone, implanting metal.
Afterwards, he will phone me, a brief call.
I will phone our three children, grownups all.

Walking back I will be there bedside
when her eyes will open,
when a nurse will ask her
to rate her level of pain
on a scale of one to ten.
She will quibble about the impossibility
of assigning numbers, and then
she will choose her favorite, “Three.”
You’ll see.

Joe Cottonwood repairs homes and writes poems under redwood trees in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California, where he seeks wagging tails and dog-eared pages. His forthcoming book of poetry is titled buck naked is the opposite of hate.  His website is joecottonwood.com.