It's not long till we connect,

get the reason for the drunken text,

find that no one is where they should be.

Everyone has mustered to

emergency positions.

 

The wife knows how to get around a hospital.

She can find me or mine or hers or ours

in any medical facility, anywhere.

She's been tested.  Proven.

 

We are calm.  Not indestructible.

 

How fortunate that if our girl has to take a nosedive

down a flight of stairs and into a set of stitches

and a full suit of bruises, 

let it be when we          are here.

 

Not when we are a helpless hundred miles away.

Here, we can chase down answers 

as only parents can.

 

When her hands are in our hands,

we wipe off the blood 

that the nurses said not to.

I have seen this before:

you can stop a train

easier than a needed mother.

 

Our daughter slowly gathers herself,

twists nonsense into clues.

She thinks she had a seizure

or a mini-stroke.

We don’t know, the staff

don’t know. It’s anyone’s bet.

It's Nevada.

Whatever the odds are,