Confessions from the Waiting Room

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 CONFESSIONS FROM THE WAITING ROOM


Not cancer yet, but yesterday

I imagined a woman shirtless—

no, she wasn’t my wife.


No broken bones or muscles tearing

from the roots, but yes,

I often do congratulate myself 


for being more enlightened than

the plebians who vote the other way, 

regardless of what's at stake. 


No need for ibuprofen 

or an anti-inflammatory, and seeing as 

you ask about my joints they’re working


as they ought, but please

don’t tell me that I’m good to go 

because we both know better, 


and maybe this disease

is one that requires leeches or a slow 

release of blood, mine or another’s.

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