In the Hospital

Adam Fotos

Princess Diana is

dead,

her Rolls Royce like a crumpled

paper cup dipped in black enamel. The beetle-thing

twinkles back the camera flashes and street

lights as we watch from above

through the lenses of angelic attendants

the camera crew from CNN, and we

read in the ICU from the TV above my grandfather’s

bed about her last game of polo.

My grandfather lies asleep and I don’t

think about the entourage of machines around him

braiding his body with sensors and tubes

buzzing intermittently, and I don’t wonder

why they would let us watch his blood

filter in and out of a large grey box,

through clear, plastic tubes.

I listen to my step-father whispering of the royal family

and conspiracy.