As I’m pushed
dutifully through the swinging double doors of the bright white room,
a clean phone is ringing on the wall,
its cord hung and curled like a vestigial tail,
and I think of the phone tree,
pained over so cousins and co-workers would get the news
and send their congratulations
and I worry that Mike’s sister will almost certainly be in the tunnel
on her way home from work in the city when her call comes,
and the meticulous tree will fall
and will anyone hear it?
As Mike and the too-young (I told you all along goddamn you Mike) boy-faced doctor
tell me in unison to “Push! Push!”
I’m re-thinking the name Lucas.
“Mucus Lucas,” they’ll call him,
and they’ll push push
this late boy
whose pain I can already feel.