Last Shift at St. Wins

You laugh as a hold out my hands,
my blue plastic wrapped fingers

and try a few aimless notes,
vowels bouncing all around us,

a mirage of floating faces
reflected in white tile.

You look over me
with your small ripe eyes,
those ruinous black pupils,

creased lids pulsing
like you’re trying to say something.

I’m listening— I’m listening—
but I’m still unable to decode the message

and you cup your wilting hands
into ramekins,
one for each of us,

as if to say: I know you see me
I see you too