Laguna Honda   The tang of ammonia, that’s part of it — from disinfectant, from urine, who knows — and flowers, too many flowers, and shit, undeniable shit, whatever those orderlies do with the pans, and bad food, overcooked, barely picked at, pushed away on uncollected trays, and vomit — that’s good, she thought, at least my nose still works, and maybe one ear to tease out the words I’d hear if only he’d come to say them, if only he were here to touch my hand, say we’re together again, say he’ll take me home.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont August 2010