The walls contained a rainbow of brochures, rife
with photos—peaceful faces, gladly sick.
And sadder, breathing though, the waiting room
contained: abused and injured, worried-wells,
the homesick, lovesick—handful very sick.
We formed a true ensemble (though bit off),
our moans and coughs, concocting many tunes.
As arctic poppies turn to sun and light,
our eyes pursued the coats of lustrous white.
Our ears, like arid soil before the rain,
attuned to rhythms—every uttered name.
Our tongues so keen to free the muted pains
that ravage us (like mildew spread on bloom).
The doctors, nurses, come and go, as though
we're just a senseless garden, sleeping, rows
of drooping tulips, shriveled aloes, scorched
forget-me-nots (below fluorescent lights).
Or weeping willows, bleeding hearts, instead:
a "bleeding man", and not a "man" who's "bled."
And then, as phones of ivory snored and bounced,
and starvers tango-danced the Coke machines,
while drunkards raised the standards of obscene,
I heard my name—misread but still—pronounced.
And after hours of wait: So sweet to hear!
My savior stood—a gardener—scanning fast,
horizons of our field of yellowed grass.
A prophet—he—my rock; my healer; hope;
he threw across and down my well a rope,
to plant me in a vase, my own, at last,
to make me human newly—healed and whole.
My leaves uncoiled, my petals straightened out,
I turned to him, towards his light, his sound—
a myth (though other foot was on the ground).
He signed towards the circus, yes, the clown:
No longer was there doubt, I'd seen his eyes
alight on me: All hail the chosen one!
