Night Nurse

Night Nurse

Lately we invite this stranger into our home to watch over, like an angel or loyal dog,       our son.

But she is not angelic, not graceful, her feet flopping like sad clown feet. And it’s wrong

to compare our nurse to a dog, especially that kind of dog: trusted, beloved. We need her

so we hate her, even though it is—must be—our fault she’s here     —he is our son—       so we guiltily give instructions and thanks before quarantining in our room       where we sourly purse our eyes toward sleep while she is paid       to guard our son against that more familiar stranger, who should have no business with a child,     not now, not here. But endings are always near. Passing our door, her slippered steps now sound too like anxious foot-tapping, strangers impatient to leave with     what they’ve come to collect.