4 February 2010 Archives
Oh, Yeah, and I’m Writing Again
I’ve started a series of poems about going to the public clinic. The first is about the psych clinic upstairs. To follow, I’m thinking of writing something about the main clinic downstairs, and another about the waiting rooms.
The depressing stained drop ceiling drools sallow light onto the wretched.A haze of body heat and unwashed clothes swirls each time a patient shifts on a wobbled-legged chairs
or cross in a shamble to enter the segregated place where the doctors keep to themselves.
The name called in a cough by the green-draped nurse is mine.
Hers is the only voice here, unless you count bits of internal monologue that burst loose in smoky whispers or momentary shouts, before the owners of the voices realize that the damper slipped.
