The Pick-Up

I back the van into the loading dock
of the hospital. He emerges
from the shadows, hair blanched
as his white linen shirt.

At the counter he is God,
met with signatures, blank stares.
No one seems to know
what is truly going on.

Inside the cell he dictates curtly.
With smooth alacrity we unzip the bag.
It's his hands I watch as we work,
snow-white in their latex.
I had once seen those hands
tear petals off roses for a family
to place on a casket. I had ached
to wrap my legs around him
in a white room, shut my eyes
to the world forever.

The sheets emit a powdery odor
like a baby's. Soft curves register
and I know she is woman, gold wedding
band tight on her swollen finger.
Later we will endure the passages
of time and water, place it gingerly
on the whitest satin.

He leaves me at the dock, shadows
swallowing his pale form. I secure
my passenger, lower the radio
in respect. I can still smell
his cologne on me though we never
had reason to touch.

Trees arrest the lonely, winding road,
stark, bereft clusters with occasional
brush strokes of white and gold.

I think, Maybe there's something there.
Just maybe.