Any Fool Can

Jeanne-Marie Osterman

sit by her father’s bed and talk about the old days watch shallow breaths count blue boomerangs on a faded gown worn by the many who’ve passed this way but it takes a tender-hearted lover of self to get out of her chair to catch a nap grab a plate of food and when

I walk to the cafeteria carrying my clipboard with Medicaid application and notes for Washington State Human Services

I’m mistaken for a social worker by a man in a wheelchair whose wife is dying down the hall.

He is crying and wants me to tell him what to do. I explain I’m just the daughter of someone else who is dying. I want to tell him I’m a fool tell him I’m tired and what 22

Oster man little I have left is for my father not your wife.

I don’t say it. We look at each other me with my clipboard appearing calm and officious in the matter of everyone’s death.