A man has just been told
he has months to live

and downstairs
someone is arguing with the cashier
about extra guacamole.

The pudding cups are sweating
under fluorescent lights.

A resident microwaves fish.

Somewhere above us
a family is learning
what palliative means,

while beside the vending machine
a surgeon says,

“if this next case goes long
I’m literally going to die.”

We laugh.

In hospitals,
death is both catastrophic
and completely procedural.

Someone refills the napkin dispenser.
Someone silences an alarm.
Someone adds gravy to mashed potatoes.

The world refuses
to pause correctly.

At the table near the window,
a nurse peels an orange
in one perfect spiral.

A transport worker scrolls Facebook
with gloves still tucked
into his back pocket.

My phone vibrates twice.

Room 814 needs help turning a patient.
Room 927 needs ice water.
Room 601 needs the doctor
to come back and explain everything again.

Upstairs, machines measure
oxygen saturation, heart rhythm,
respiratory rate.

Down here, the soda fountain
dispenses crushed ice indefinitely.

I buy a coffee I do not want
because it feels irresponsible
not to.

When the code blue alarm sounds,
nobody freezes.

One person looks up.
Three keep eating fries.
Someone says, “third one today.”

The cashier calls the next number.

Outside, the parking garage
throws long shadows across the windows.

Visitors carry balloons upward
past families carrying overnight bags downward.

The elevator doors keep opening
for both of them.