In Bel Air

Chic beauties, men in tuxes
run across the wet plaza
to the hospital entrance.

I twist sprung cords
to turn the blinds,
trying to see.

Perfect curves on rainswept autos.
Big smiles, fine suits,
fabrics night-blue, glassy.

My vision’s left is carved
inward by my arm,
skin dim with shadows.

Laughing, waving
to friends who lean out
from Mercedes windows.

The window won’t open.
The nurse comes in,
tells me to go to bed.

White hands, polished nails.
Sharp molars.
What could they want here?

Through this window:
clear, bright teeth like ropes of pearls,
diamond edges.

[Los Angeles, 4/4/90-10/14/92]