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.