The Waiting Room

So pallor: the plastic chairs and the pictures of fake Monet bouquets you find in hospitals. These depictions are levitating inside my peripherals- how they absorb all the color I house for the rained out day; how lonely these flowers must be- as the last one of their kind inside this office where I sit, not completely broken, but disoriented in my tight chair. I recognize this room as a waiting room. I wait for the doctor’s assistants call, and I hawk-eye the door’s like it is a morbid portal, dismembering my state of mind and raping all the concrete certainties I have sustained. The marching clock, with its constant tongue clicks, dragging my own feeble life span away and away, resounds in my ears and repercussions off the cedar door my nurse opens with a smile as she clutches her chart. They gave me a cup, I filled it. No glory no embarrassment. Results are in, and my arms go numb- even weeks later.