Gurney

At the Monroeville Cancer Center,
no urgency, no sirens howling
as the ambulances come and go,
just the ferrying of passengers,
routine and unremarkable.

Her ashen face as they wheel her out
is amazed, afraid, and disarranged,
confused to how she's gotten there,
in front of sliding plate glass doors,
watching as they open and close.

I wonder where my mother is,
and why she's left me here alone?
Who's that old lady lying in bed,
and where does she go when
she disappears and reappears,
and disappears again?

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Michael Albright is a member of the Pittsburgh Poetry Exchange and the Squirrel Hill Poetry Workshop. He has published poems in U.S. 1 Worksheets, The New People, and the Loyalhanna Review. He lives in Greensburg, Pennsylvania with his wife, Lori, and ever-changing array of children and other animals.