A length of hose lies coiled on the ground,
unconnected to the well, watering nothing.
We could call this hose Hose, or better yet, José,
but the dream said its name was Don the conduit man,
coffee-colored and beautiful in that slightly androgynous
look these days. Let’s agree to make Don bilingual
with a small tattoo near his left collarbone.
Don is unencumbered by medical credentials or expertise;
no acronyms or initials trudge in the wake of his name.
His gift is his fluidity and flexibility, plus the fact
that he can deliver a clear message.
When I need something explained, but I myself
have grown weary of hearing me explain it—
especially if I have lapsed into hambone schtick—
I will have Don explain it. People will be charmed
and reassured to hear his thorough and guileless words.
He will explain that the staples have been removed,
that my long badger stripe scar is bone dry and healing beautifully.
He will explain that barring any unforeseen circumstances,
the long-anticipated full pathology report, including
the recommended plan of treatment, is forthcoming
this coming Monday. Err, make that Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday?
He will explain that the fact that my computer was hacked
exactly two weeks after brain surgery must surely be a
statistical anomaly and not evidence that the universe
carries a personal vendetta against me. He will point out
that the law of threes (ruptured appendix, brain cancer, getting hacked)
has surely been enacted by now, and that it is highly unlikely
that any other misfortune is destined to come my way—
for example, the well running dry, or a tree branch
or better yet a meteor falling on my head—
at least not in the immediate future.
Don will be able to explain all this without further instruction on my part,
for he is lithe and sinuous, coiled like a hollow snake,
a clear conduit for future messages.