Cross caution tape to the receptionist.
Notice her polka-dotted plaster pig.
If you tip, is that anti-feminist?
Brown grass well-past harvest as her wig.
An hour in, you cling to pencil tip,
journaling is your partial partition.
A dingy in a sea of noise, you slip,
floundering in sneezy sea of sickness.
No, this poem is not your bodyguard.
Though it serves as gracious ghoonghat now.
Chances are you’re finally marred,
the doctor’s smile turns, a sickly plow.
The cancer’s found; it’s here to stay;
your brain’s on glowing, garish display.
This poem is written for d’Verse’s Thursday Night—- Middles & Turns. Peter is host tonight and invited us to write a haiku or sonnet with a dramatic turn. Join us.
Artwork: Hospital Waiting Room by Michael Salaman