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August 22, 2011


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.