by Tim Burke
Sometimes Keith would wander into the visitors’ waiting room, just so he could see time passing. The window faced south and the room was filled with autumn dusk the color of dried egg yolk.
The monitors beeped and the machine fixed to his father’s throat rasped. The one tube that ran to a plastic jug of amber urine, its tube disappearing under the sheets. Keith imagined the tube sliding up his penis, the pain of the urethra being forced open.
His father did not want to end up an old man tied down in a bed. When he threw a bowling ball down a lane and had to spend five minutes catching his breath, he glared if you even looked at him struggling.