I sit and wait.
“We’ll call you.”
A procedure awaits me
even as I await it.
This Manhattan waiting room,
well-named,
on the upper East Side
is like most:
Soft chairs
water cooler
check-in controllers
at slick screens and keyboard
white coats sail forth and back.
Sleepy souls like me
chatting with companions
or with strangers.
A Pentecost of tongues!
Newspapers scanned
magazines paged through.
Cell phones listening, talking,
buzzing ignoring signs banning.
The opening shot came
on early arrival:
nurse with needle
shooting in nuclear stain
to stream out
over veins and frames.
Will I glow in the dark?
“Now only three hours to wait,”
they explain,
“before the procedure can start.”
I am ready indeed
with self-taught technique
to survive with calm
being tied down,
immobilized on gurney
with huge beastly camera
inching its way over me
to capture my body profile.
“You can breathe.”
Oh, thanks!
“This will take about one hour.”
Let me share my secret:
Without moving a muscle,
eyes closed, I sing!
Heavens! Not aloud
but in my head I rehearse
memorized hymns from childhood,
tempo-stretched, largely largo --
a private recital
with song segues
between and among
Beautiful Savior and
Heavenly Love Abiding,
and a hymn festival of many others
finallly reaching
an Amen closure.
This is a test!
Will I pass?
What will radiologist report
and what will oncologist reveal
to me about my dry bones?
Good news? Bad news?
Not to worry!
It’s beyond my control;
I am doing my part.
By waiting
by singing
by praying.
