e r

 

  Didja ever notice how pathetic white can be
               from the chuckling chalk of fluorescence
                            (cool and cunning and unamused)
               blurring your skin
               as you double lurch from post-vomit stomach lockdown?

  it catches you in the room, waiting
               clutching to the plastic bowl, and thinking
               Yesterday it held a salad, and two weeks ago
                        tortilla chips
               and now, it sits in your lap
                        an expectant father
                                 waiting for the birth-belch,
                                          Waiting.

  we sit, waiting.   small shift crew of strangers, less than ten.
               we sit, submarine pallor in the parlor room
                        silent running
                        missing portholes to check for the
                        depth charges to drop.
               television in the high corner
                        unreachable, unchangeable.
               it too is paled, or perhaps, shamed into dimness
                        volume soft enough to not really be heard
                        and not loud enough to mask conversation

  waiting alone
               I am smiling in the fluorescence
               bland cracker illumination settling stomach and mind.
  I am eyeballing nurses, disappointed in their pillbox hatlessness
               seeing them stare in perpetual slouch,
                        a medical practiced naval gaze
                        Zenning out the room with patience
  and therefore I missed the entrance of
                                 the boy wonder.

  wearily and warily he wore the shock-smock
               blank colored, collared by his steth
                         exhausted from, what?  Bicycle puddle jumping?
                         stealing home in a little league final or
                        sneaking a late peek at a skinemax double feature
                        or arriving teenaged in a med school Normandy
                                 and getting doogie howitzered
  murmuring to the admitting nurse
                 who admitted with a nod
                         his quarry:

                                                  The madame was waiting.
  Middle aged, eyeglassed and non-descript
              stroking softly like a pretty pelt
                        the adolescent jacket in her lap
                                 alone, and waiting
  and the doc approached (circled, really)
               and she looked up
                        just in time to meet his gaze
                                 as he gulped grey air and uttered
                                           "Er."

  the mono-syllable swallowed the room,
               monolithic, Kubrickian, imposing,
               immense in its idiocy, before tumbling down
                        somewhere in the thin tile
                                 beneath her feet
  the morpheme injection in the vain
               attempt to inform, and instead, infecting
               the sterile hope she benignly tumored
  and I sat there, two seats removed,
               wishing for a louder tv
                        as she sat there for the doctor

                                                                              waiting.

(back to home)