waiting room

some days i find a doctor
in my mailbox & he is promising
to make me into a bird.
i rehearse the prophecy,
"i have not slept for twenty-eight years."
count my fingers to remind myself
i still have something to grasp 
a bell with. on the television
there is always a man saying
more than he should. a tongue 
as a salamander. i overturn rocks
in the yard looking for prescriptions.
all my pill grow legs & live as beetles.
in the kitchen this morning 
i got on my knees 
to catch just one. a magazine
promises that everyone can be 
as thin as a lollipop leg.
white women with white teeth
& white shirts. i try to imagine
a life here. setting up a tent 
in the waiting room. starting
a fire. roasting ears of corn 
& feasting right in front
of the receptionist. instead
i cross my legs & my arms. 
try to pass the time by counting
angels i see falling out 
the one big window overlooking
a swampy field. when they come
the nurse is not a nurse
but a heron. i'm instantly comforted.
she's holding a blue balloon
which is another relief.
a red balloon is always a bad sign.
i almost don't want
to follow her, i've made 
such a little nest in this thicket.
the magazines become moths.
even the man on the television
stops talking. he scowls 
& waits for me to get up & follow her.