Because the patient gives me the wrong address–
because when I call my manager, she tells me
keep searching– I sprint with cheesy tortellini
down eleven dim flights, cursing broken
elevators. On the ground floor Panera
calls again and asks where are you? I say
in the hospital. After silence, I clarify– for
a customer– and she tells me who you seek
is next door. I lament the time I wasted
driving this black bag in a small vessel
to the wrong drop-off, and even more, time
spent walking from one mistake to the next.
Hospital lights hue everything sickly.
What is it I am trying to deliver? I look
through the inventory of my belongings
and, after the hand-off, bear the lightness.

(originally published in Freshwater Literary Journal, Spring 2021)