Seen from the parking lot, the building seems
an army barracks, every window lit,
with now and then a shape in uniform
casting a shadow as she passes by.
I’m glad it’s not one of those offices
on Main Street that pretends to be a house—
as if your pap smear’s one more household task
between the vacuuming and dinner prep.
I don’t want the false comfort of a home
these days when news is likely to be grim.
Open the door, a few women look up
and smile, as if relieved to see it’s me.
The waiting room’s in total disarray,
toys from the toy box kids never put back
when moms were ushered in for their exams;
end tables strewn with pamphlets dull with facts,
and oh-too-many women’s magazines
(most of them missing pages of coupons).
The bathroom’s stocked with napkins, just in case;
the seat is down—somebody thought of us!
Barracks aside, this is a female stop:
the mess, the changing table, the request
you pay your bills on time, a tactful sign
framed with a smiley face: Have a nice day!
Everyone here except a stray husband
or pacing boyfriend awaiting the results
is one of us—as if the world in which
we come to know our bodies should be kept
a place apart where we can catch our breath,
surrender to our lives and to our deaths.