VISITING HOURS

[Verse 1]
Friday, six P.M., the heat off the Buckhead asphalt steams.
He sees the new porch light, a surgical beam.
The lawn is a skin graft, laid perfect and clean.
Each blade of the fescue a stitch in a dream he's seen.
His '09 Accord makes a sound in the drive,
A cough in a sterile ward, barely alive.
This house doesn't settle, it doesn't have ghosts,
Just load-bearing silence from curated posts.

[Chorus]
It's another post-op, check the sutures, stop the bleed.
She's a different patient, new surgery for the need.
A clean incision, no infection, no debris.
Just a phantom limb for the man he used to be.

[Verse 2]
She opens the door, just a crack, not too wide.
The air smells like linen and something money can't hide.
His boy's in the doorway, a miniature him.
With a prognosis written on every new limb.
She says, "He has his homework, don't forget his coat."
Her voice is a flatline, a pre-written note.
He signs for the handoff, a chart on a clip.
The pressure, the numbness, the bite of his lip.

[Bridge]
A 747 screams low in the grey.
Stitches of vapor that slowly decay.
He's charting the fracture lines, mapping the stress.
This is the healing that looks like a mess.

[Chorus]
It's another post-op, check the sutures, stop the bleed.
She's a different patient, new surgery for the need.
A clean incision, no infection, no debris.
Just a phantom limb for the man he used to be.

[Outro]
The car door clicks shut like a medical tray.
Another two weeks 'til the next visiting day.