People in the waiting room, waiting for a procedure.
Strangers to me except for why we’re here. Radiology.
The “Doctors” are on two of the TV’s.
Patients sit quietly reading and a few listen
to the monotone volume of the ABC program.
Cell phones and iPads, magazines and books.
A mother with a set of twins in a stroller,
an older man with a walker,
and a black woman wears her Sunday hat with feathers.
I’m drinking coffee and waiting,
it’s just a routine ultrasound.
I felt a chill today as I walked through the door
of the Winship Cancer Institute at Emory.
We never know if we’ll be the same person
when we leave. Here they find the secrets of our body,
secrets I myself don’t even know.
Names are called one by one,
like roll call at school when we were children—
Ms. Williams, Smith, Jones, Pascal. . . .
I sip my coffee, waiting. It’s so delicious.
Mr. Owen, Mr. Owen, Mr. Owen.
The “Doctors” close, the credits roll by,
and it’s time for “The View,” just like at home
but yet so different in the waiting room.
A young woman comes by with chips, popcorn,
peanuts, crackers and peanut butter. I take some popcorn.
I could be right at home except for that recurrent thought,
“What if this time it’s different, and they find something.”
They call my name,
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