A wet, gray Super Bowl Sunday
Two great teams face each other
across the bloody line.
May the best survive.
I sit on a hard chair in
ICU Room 204.
My love sleeps on her breathing bed.
She dozes, wakes, smiles,
“What’s the score?”
She asks the four of me she sees,
her nuero-surgeon went deeper than before,
this time.
“Almost to her soul,” he quipped.
I did not laugh.
He left her soul where it belongs.
We watch the game together
while her body wages war
across the bloody line.
Heal and hurt confront each other
Third down and 6.
Red zone.
Please, God.
May the Best survive.