One day, sitting in the reclining chair at the overcrowded cancer center waiting…
waiting for the black belt nurse with the sharpest vampire teeth to draw my blood
waiting until the bathroom is open so I can pee into the little cup
waiting for the nurse to take the lab samples away to the lab rats
waiting for the lab samples to come back so that I’m cleared for the infusion
waiting for the mysterious pharmacists upstairs to boil their cauldron of poison
waiting for the nurse to return and robe herself to shield from any spills of said poison
waiting for the infusion to drip through my innocent veins
waiting for the saline solution flush
waiting for the hospital to finally find a permanent replacement for our retiring oncologist…
All this waiting inspired a full-blown activist fantasy:
All of us, as best we can, stand up, steady our various wobbles,
grab our rolling IV poles, and march or limp to the CEO’s office to lodge a protest
but not after calling a reporter friend and asking her to bring a photographer.
On second thought, it would be better optics if all of us change into hospital gowns,
preferably open in the back.