Outside the emergency room, we bask
in the quiet. Faraway, plastic explosions
bury everyone's ears. Drums, festival
music, spill from city bars: unhesitant,
frenetic, anxious to welcome the new
year. I imagine you wouldn't want
any of this. Only the sterile silence,
the clinical whiteness of hospital halls.
In the news, weather reports say a cyclone
comes bringing torrential rains: barren
rotundas, soon to be deluged by flood-
water; cars, their taillights, soon to blink
in black trellises of mud. We start to
forget our cancelled trips home, should
try to head back to the station pantry
where our colleagues have laid out
a small New Year's meal, a couple of
balloons, dance music, paper confetti.
Instead, we stay here, under the small,
flickering light bulb of this convenience
store's tent, thinking about our own
provinces, the burning of their stars.