On the way to the hospital, I ask for a sign that it will be all right.
We take a wrong turn, and there is a church dedicated to my patron saint,
A grotto with the supplicant girl before the Queen of Queens (of Queens).
On the way to the hospital, I try to keep the feeling light.
“I want a puppy welcome wagon,” I say.
Turning the corner is an army in their Park Avenue collars,
Woofing my invite to stay in the world.