The ambulance. The boat. The helicopter,
Its blades rotating like a pinwheel in the wind,
Pooped on by birds that land on it.
Unlike her dog, Wynton’s poop that has to be picked up,
A good power wash and the helicopter is pristine again,
Gleaming in the sun like a bald man’s head.
The blood. The pain. The vomit. The smell permeating
Her uniform, wrapping her in a cloak of sweat,
Puke, and determination to save the next one.
The charts, the schedule of who works next,
The necessity of organization – unlike in
Her bedroom where clothes are piled on the floor,
A wrinkled bed-spread half on the bed, the other
Half on the floor. Her walls littered with pictures
Of friends and paintings detailing her sorority:
The colors green and gold, a yellow rose, a canvas
With the letters A, S, T. One glance and you can see
She’s an Alpha Sigma Tau sorority girl.
Harry Potter wands, Harry Potter books, a stack of
Harry Potter movies covering the blue dresser
Like an invisibility cloak draped over someone.
The walls of the squad room are taped with
Posters of various ways to save a life.
CPR, Narcan, Oxygen, and Epinephrine:
The magic behind the lives she saves.