Heart, thumping
like a conga drum,
From the
flight of stairs I climb,
Two steps at
a time,
Head still
tipsy from
That last deceitful
drop
Of caffeine,
gone cold at the bottom of the mug,
The flavor
of solitude and desolation,
The smell of
an open door
Shuffling feet
and settling,
Sound of the
slow fan, its bent blade,
My spiritless
symphony,
The wait is
over. It’s my turn.
Tearing my
eyes out of the waiting room magazines,
Goodbye half
brained beauties,
Dragging my
feet,
Blurry letters
and continuous questioning,
I find it
difficult to breathe sometimes, I say,
She hides my
face with a picture of a house,
Bricked walls
and red roof,
My chins on
a plastic machine,
A prescription
for fake tears,
At the price
of two fags,
She places a
glass in front of my eye,
I look like
a freak show clown,
In a
carnival, during off-season,
She asks me,
Do you see a
home?
Its red roof
and brick walls,
I say I see
a house,
Am I blind?
Please say
yes.