Recent Work By Ephraim Scott Sommers

Must another love story end, and how, and when? Asthmatic, shifty,
and hood-zipped with snow ghosting the 2 AM Kalamazoo avenues, Ann and I
hunch and hobble the hospital parking lot
with our tube-socks soiled, the dead asphalt buried in dirty slush,

the automatic urgent care door yawning open, and we want
to spill our emergency all over the hallways, but insurance forms, signatures,
the blank faces of receptionist
cashiers cataloguing, monotoning, two photocopies, two keyboards,

an examined and re-examined ID, and as a wallet fumbles open painfully
from a purse to squeeze out an insurance card, the hurt widens, widening, and Ann
doubles over as if some tank-grenade has detonated
in her belly and is still detonating, its shrapnel spreading