Why Sally Wears White

Infirm Betties gather colds and mums
to keep in cups, bedside. They populate
their wards with slumping cut-outs: stars, keys.

To the light, a morphine shot of Betty
gurgles. Each room holds its breath
as if under water,

sky-heavy, hard to hear. Dan
with his boombox, Betties
with their fallen figure-eight—

not infinite, just awkward. A Starsky,
not much. Visitors with a pot of daisies,
maybe figurines. What’s left

of Betties cinches the reigns. We see a lack,
some loose leaves. We count twice. Full deck.