Waiting Room Poem

The assistant tells me
stand on the scale
let me weigh your body

He proffers a foggy cup
inching closer and says
now move your bowels.

Clerical hens
Tapping away at the keys
Sidelong glances past the lychee.

I trapped a pellet like feed
and offer my shit to someone
anyone who wants a piece of me

(not a place for jokes
apparently)

–my self
In four cornered plastic sheets.

Don’t call
We’ll call you.
Doctor if anything’s wrong–

just wait. Wait
and place that worry on ice.

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