The Ship Pounding

Each morning I made my way 
among gangways, elevators, 
and nurses’ pods to Jane’s room 
to interrogate the grave helpers 
who tended her through the night 
while the ship’s massive engines 
kept its propellers turning.
Week after week, I sat by her bed 
with black coffee and the Globe. 
The passengers on this voyage 
wore masks or cannulae
or dangled devices that dripped 
chemicals into their wrists. 
I believed that the ship
traveled to a harbor
of breakfast, work, and love. 
I wrote: "When the infusions 
are infused entirely, bone
marrow restored and lymphoblasts 
remitted, I will take my wife, 
bald as Michael Jordan,
back to our dog and day." Today, 
months later at home, these 
words turned up on my desk 
as I listened in case Jane called 
for help, or spoke in delirium, 
ready to make the agitated
drive to Emergency again
for readmission to the huge
vessel that heaves water month 
after month, without leaving 
port, without moving a knot, 
without arrival or destination, 
its great engines pounding.