Outpatient [a poem]
By Judith Evans | Featured Contributor
Heavy steps through the clinic door.
Scores of faces, waiting room eyes
Follow my feet to the check-in desk.
Finally, a space for my face near the water cooler.
18 minutes of freedom, wishing our dog were here.
I dream, screaming silently till I hear my name.
Dead down the hall: sterile chairs, swabs, lidocaine,
Blood draw, raw nerves, tsk tsk near the back of my head.
Are you in pain? As if I were deaf.
No space for my face any more.
Meanwhile, it’s snowing.
Will this freeze cease?
