Outside the window, different shades of light
imply the movements of other lives. A car
screeches into action in the lot.
The rails on the beds, the IV drips,
and light blue gowns sequester us from them,
dressed in their daytime civvies, late for work,
fumbling with car keys—we can’t hear the jingle
or muttered curses at cacophonous
alarm clocks on the bed stands we can’t see.

We see a bit, of course, from where we are
and know what’s going on beyond our sight.
The window, pigeon dropping-smeared, lets in
a limited tableau, a TV screen
without commercial interruption, cast
with nothing but extras, a wide, extended shot
without a zoom to close-up—since the star
of the series is convalescing off the screen
and watching from a bed that’s not his own.