--- F R A N K   M A T A G R A N O

"In rabbinic writings, there are at least a dozen angels of death..."

I counted three last time:
two on smoke break
near the door on York Ave;
name tag affixed
to wing, and upstairs,
the third, room 915 B,
the shadow of a ruffled
feather over grandma's diseased
breast, one long flourescent bulb
above the bed, a box of white
tissues from the grocer,
a half-empty glass of juice
on the tray, mom asleep
in one of two visitor chairs,
her sister in the other,
bent over, pulling up the tongue
of an untied shoe.