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The Blind Nurse

When your eyes fail
you quit the job of rounds
and reports to the station
and work instead
from front room of your house
a venture, to keep your hand
on others, getting at
what sickens them, through sound
and touch, smell of their
bodies, like lemon sometimes
like rust

You refuse to deal
in splints
or ragged pain
You sit across from me
hold my arm below the elbow
and find where my body is burning
I come for touch of your hands
not so big as I expect
like my mother’s

I can watch you without
turning aside, can nurse my hunger
to stare frankly at a face
—what a blessing you give:
that I need not always
be glancing away
I’ll leave my money on the corner table
No one ever thinks of cheating you
Sometimes I want to touch your hair
where it is not quite combed