I Didn’t Make The Cut
LISTEN NOW
I didn’t make the cut
Unauthorized to practice with the team
I pace out of step
Scrambled, scattered
Like the small uneven mountains of stray clothing
Laying half complacently at the
Table top jumble sale
the medical debris
Strewn and untouchable
huddling deep in the bowels
of the metallic, florescent orange bins
ubiquitously repeated
as if gazing at us from an Andy Warhol painting
in the maze of the oncology department waiting rooms
inside, a cacophony of tired needles, still sharp,
divorced from their beloved flesh
like disgruntled devotees
mumble quietly
each hygienically sealed bins
incubating their purgatory of dreams
gathered like bashful initiates in a silent ritual
we huddle, awaiting the next iteration
awaiting the efficient, clipped tones of the nurse, invoking our names
calling us into the sacrarium
our feet neatly tucked under our chairs
eyes carefully averted
supplicants in an eternal ritual of hospital waiting rooms
How can cheery newscasters issue their opaque
syllables in wide smiling rhythms
from the remotely installed television screen
perched high up the wall,
while we are buried in our blue plastic chairs
lined up against the waiting room wall
execution style?
A hastily produced sign, prominently placed
Instructs us to use the disinfecting wipes provided
To clean our chair when vacated
We, who haven’t made the cut,
Know this is a grave anointing
