Place Mats

Lucy has written her life story

on hospital place mats.

Twelve years, two thousand dollars a week

in soft rooms. She

tried to get them typed, but the doctor

took everything. He said

she would only upset herself. At least

that’s what she told me that day

in the park. It was that kind of sky

you get in late September – the livid blue

that only comes when every drop

of moisture freezes on apples

and the yellow blooms

of squash or pumpkin – as children yelled

over by the monkey bars. I need to believe

that somewhere

someone writes it all down,

not just the atrocities -- soccer fields covered

in fresh turned soil, photographs hanging

on subway kiosks -- but placemats

scribbled with crayon, yellowing

in a hospital file cabinet, as the sun sets

over trees, and the light fades on Lucy

and me and the children arguing

by the sandbox.