This night nurse is different.
She walks into my room and does not turn the light on.
She thinks I am sleeping.
I have just barely opened my left eye,
am looking through the slightest slit,
as moonlight exposes the room
for what it really is — a collection
of surfaces; lines and planes, mostly.
The night nurse puts a foot up on the radiator
and braces her clipboard on her knee
as she appears to take down a few notes.
I imagine she is working on a sonnet,
and that her ankle looks like polished walnut.
You imagine she is working on a crossword,
and that her feet are killing her.
The slightest slit is like an old gate
at a Japanese tea garden at night,
in the rain, that is supposed to be closed,
that is supposed to be locked.
“Someone has locked up poorly,” you’d say.
“Incorrectly.” But no one has asked you.
Words for the Year 
Very nice to take a moment from work and read such an intriguing poem. Poetry adds that moment when one forgets the restraints and lets the mind sing.
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“Poetry adds that moment when one forgets the restraints and lets the mind sing.”
^ I LOVE that.
Nurses are usually always hustling and bustling about…a nice voyeuristic glimpse catching a nurse in a private moment. Unique and intriguing.
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This brought a big smile. Captures various perspectives beautifully.. the slitted-open to the moonlight eye, when the world is all geometric moonlit surfaces, a japanese gate half-open– and the wildly different perspectives of the moonlight vision & the relentlessly rational, daytime viewer…
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Love your poetic eye here, Barbara. Just lovely.
Sent from my iPhone
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