Hushed

Stroke Hushed

No siren wailed a warning
from the ambulance carrying us –
me up front with the driver;
Ron, silent on the stretcher
in the back.

What matters when one travels
familiar roads towards help?
In my case, this man – the one
I call Ron, our daughter calls Dad,
and our unborn child may someday
call ‘The Man’

What matters is that he lives;
that I do only what supports.
I pray breath, constrict limbs
to halt the trembling, swallow
screams, imagine sunrise coming,
fix my face to impart assurance
I no longer own.

No sirens wailed a warning.

"No use upsetting
him – not much traffic
after midnight."

This stranger’s words
are the only ones spoken
as Ron and I ride on,
silent, into years of night.