Outsiders

My aunt is in the hospital. We entered the hospital
Dad, Bub, and I joking and jostling each other;
making fun of Bub's mismatched socks.
We went through the lobby and met someone,
some woman and some man from our family.
Things seemed fine; they always do.

"You take the stairs, fat boy?" Pappaw says to Dad.
Upon seeing my aunt, the whole family was weeping
in a semi circle of four. Pappaw put his arm around Big John.
His other hand remained by his side. Dad was not involved.
We are the outsiders. We don't belong:
I've always known it.

Everyone is talking about renting hotel rooms.
We live in an apartment; there is room for at least five:
One in my bed, one in Bub's, one in Dad's, love seat, sofa.
But no one asks. We offer, but no one takes.
We are the outsiders: They'll pay not to stay with us.
Suddenly and selfishly I am blaming these hurting people
for being so cold, for not wanting to stay with us.

They're all exchanging phone numbers. No one asks for ours.
Green Gideon's Bible on the table beside us.
I consider picking it up; I don't.
The walls are a docile gray.
The magazines are old and, ironically, about health.
I wonder if they meant to do that. Probably.
I don't know anyone here, but they all know me.