And we wait
under blankets, reclining.
The machine pumps, whirring softly,
buzzers sound from chair to chair.
Plastic tubing hung on metal tree stands
become our parade, our pushed poison, our
We trade stories with the other chairs
while we wait, like junkies.
We don’t know what we’re doing here.
This day isn’t mine/ours
it belongs to
hours on the weeping tree
killing the disease inside me.
This day, this job,
is to wait, be
the patient patient,
to be willing to go along with this archaic dispensary.
This limbo place familiar against my will.
This necessary evil
from it I’ll walk way
run in fact.
and forget that I was ever this person.
//Kate Paul is under the influence of a spirited disposition, a curiosity of colour, mythologies of all sorts, and a fortune-cookie mentality of how to understand the natural and manmade world.