POEM:

tearing wallpaper and the smell of dust. magazines from an age I am unfamiliar with. I chose this chair, so it is mine. sickness fading over time. hearing the door open, not hearing my name. a fan in the corner. forgetting why I came. how long have I been here? how long will I stay? changing chairs, leaning into a new fate. concluding that it might be too late. a new voice. an ending cycle. never ending the cycle. tearing magazines. printers preparing prescriptions. the door opens again. me and my chair stay the same. I am sicker than he is. believe me, it is. I am not well. I tend to dwell and dwell, and dwell. the room is empty now. my sickness cured. my time is now. my name is being called.