Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Waiting Room

I sit in a cardiologist office staring at a bubble mirror gazing
into the mortality of existence where we slowly come for
peace. The chairs are drab an off-color green harnessed in
part by mahogany armrests. An elderly woman sits in a push
chair wearing a face mask. Yellow wood furnishes the floors
accompanied by the odor of hospitals. The magazines are
scarce scattered from chair to soul where an actor’s beauty
points to streams of embellishment. I thought for classism
peering at a thousand dollar mink and grinding dirt into a
hundred dollar rug. Senior citizens have a way about them
that brings out the kid in us; but often abrasive where no
harm is meant. There’s a pot of plastic carnations centered
in a wooden square pot screaming to plastic ligaments.
Two elders are snapping at each other, a love cemented in
close to fifty years of tolerance laced with patience and good
living. Others observe silently stressing through concerns
etched into the upper parts of their foreheads. Years speak to
a lived wisdom where body and soul were catered upon.
This appears different for a man filled with trimmers standing
up slowly. It makes one think of ailments taking life in one’s
person where remedy is attention, and attention, is a lifespan.    

I grabbed a bite even a morsel a piece of lemon pound cake.
I rarely indulge found to be careful, where—as of lately a pack
of donuts have served as breakfast. It sounds ironic for one
shedding pounds, but it works: one pack; one lean cuisine;
and a can of energy. I live this way a bit negligent facing music
and cymbals. It terrifies to witness de ja vu—lingering in the
same place chasing butterflies. I remember so vaguely the
consciousness of a bird: “Are those wings?” Indeed, I return
listening to voices chatter of chores while a choir streams
within. This is part royalty, a gray inheritance, partly rich
albeit aging. Many of their concerns are forgotten for new concerns.
I just smiled to remember an elder set in routine: apples and
cheese, boiled eggs, coffee and steaks. This was weekly.    

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...