holding bag. In a haze that won't describe itself, he sees the bottles above his head, and wonders what good they do; "Oil change" says I; and the drops fall to his arm and in; "Smart Ass" says he; "You bet yours" says I, and the toes of one foot move the sheet in pleasure. They like him here; like his bark, the way he tells them why they feel so smug, well enough to baby him, reminding them they'll be in a crib some day; "Time's coming" says he. "Whatever you say, Henry -- whatever." He still has his own mustache, and wants to know what the plastic one does; "Oxygen without the tent" she sings; "Enjoy it like a breath of spring." -- "Awful" says he. "Behave" she says. "Beat it" says he. "Please leave for a while" she says; "I want to do his bedsores." -- "Live it up" says I. "Smart Ass" says he. "Yours, at the moment" says I. "Bet yours" says he; and she rolls him off his rubber ring. The lounge is empty, the magazines older than a barbershop's; nothing changes -- faces smile and frown, open and close; gossip and death survive. Now he is propped on his side, his rump healing in open air; the phone rings from Alaska; the voice is hard to place, but her name makes the catheter jump on its hook. "She doesn't know" says he; "It's been years." -- "I'll write her" says I. "Leave her