Nearly seven,walls loosen, it's already dark,dinner trays rattle by,nurses slack off, catcha smoke, let go.Roses bloom in every room.
Nearbythe egg-bald babies lie, stretchingpink like rows of knitting,insects in cases, and crytiny metal tunes,hairpins scratchingsky.
The mothers gathertogether in clutchesof happy nylon,brushing and brushing their hair.
They bunch at the frosted windowsin quilted trioswatching the parking lot wherepair after pairthe yellow headlights arcthrough blowing snow --the fathers are coming.
