Sport 33: Spring 2005
in memory of Ken Andrews
There is a white clutch of hands
on his shirt, a panic that
pulls apart. The buttons become
flying discs, the stitching
is yanked up tight. He is bare
in the night. Paddles pressed
to his breast, the face is grey, eyes
fixed, neck pulsing with the down-
ward beat of someone on his
chest. Now doctors dissolve
powdered drugs, arrange tubes, pace
in disposable aprons.
Male, late forties, Status One.
The white sheet faps at his face.