Martha Morgan

Thorough Consideration

Slowly, he unwraps the wax-paper packaging. Of course, it is hot, the paper hot, the bun hot. The burger itself, he will find only mildly so. With elbows planted on the orange plastic table to keep his hands steady, he lifts the sandwich, although small, with both hands to his mouth. Ketchup, mustard, pickles, onion, thin pale gray gristle, he feels the lump squeeze down his throat. He puts his burger down, picks up the coffee: Newman's Own, Butch Cassidy with cream, no sugar. Surely, this will be hot too; he takes a sip, burning his tongue, his throat. He looks up through the light reflecting window, through to the darkness outside. He can see the neon of the hospital's entrance.

Across the street
on a cold bed
lies his wife of sixty years:

Intensive Care