At night, sometimes, from where we float

on False Creek in the cosy shell of our luxury

boat — gin palace, hardwood floors, plastic and pleasure

glass — I hear the sounds of rotors overhead.

 

Whirlybird, medivac, its race to Children’s or VGH

from Alert Bay, Rupert, Telqwa, Kitimat …

after medicine ran out: the flight to Vancouver 

 x-rays, MRIs, scalpels, last chance consults.

 

False Creek pounds black on stormy nights,

otters and seals now thump the dock.

From the bed that rocks with every wave

I heed the rotor-call-to-prayer, and beg for mercy.