Day 560

Eighteen minutes 
to evacuate the hospital:
You’re sitting with your father —
elderly, frail, wounded by shrapnel,
barely conscious.  Eighteen
minutes to pull 
the iv’s, eighteen minutes
to lift him carefully 
out of his bed, wrap blankets
around him to keep him
warm, make certain 
his open wounds
are covered by 
whatever there is
to cover them. 
Eighteen minutes
to swing him 
gently onto your back,
run cautiously
down the hospital stairs,
surrounded by so many
others doing
the same. Your father
moaning, struggling
to breathe.  You,
remembering how
he used to carry you
on his strong shoulders
through streets abundant
with gardens, all the way
to the sea.