James Croal Jackson

James Croal Jackson

Delivery

Because the patient gives me the wrong address— because when I call my manager, she tells me keep searching—I sprint with cheesy tortellini down eleven dim flights, cursing broken elevators. On the ground floor Panera calls again and asks where are you? I say in the hospital. After silence, I clarify—for a customer—and she tells me who you seek is next door. I lament the time I wasted driving this black bag in a small vessel to the wrong drop-off, and even more, time spent walking from one mistake to the next. Hospital lights hue everything sickly. What is it I am trying to deliver? I look through the inventory of my belongings and, after the hand-off, bear the lightness.