In the Waiting Room

magazines from a lost month litter the end

tables. A pretty nurse

pops her head in and says,

The doctor will see you now, though not

to you, and no one stands up—you are

the only one waiting.

But soon the doctor will cast the long shadow

of his diagnosis. You’ve got

a thorn in your paw, a toothache, chronic

wide eyes, fear of fear

of fear itself, time on your hands

slipping between your fingers,

lost lust, purgatory, online pain, short

straws, overexaggeration,

the tendency to list: short, fat, and forlorn,

ever inoperable . . . O to have

a nurse of your very own, a time-angel, someone

on the one and only payroll

to pass you the pill it’s always time to take, whose

rear your eyes can follow

to Happytown. But now, here, however,

you are skimming an article

about the viral video that sank New York,

then a profile of the man

who played the real-life Michael Jackson.

An article on who really profits

from most chilly wind. On the truth about

close friendship. On ten safe things

to open your mind to. You are an

Elizabeth! You are one of them!

Soon someone will call you in.