The following is all jumbled up
in space and in time
like me.

I sit here in this empty midnight
waiting room. Cold clean air sifts
down through the heartaches and tears
that inhabit these walls. The best in the
world they say. The best surgeon they say.
These things latch onto the fear. They
pull at it, but the fear is stronger.
Open Heart Surgery. Even for me,
a man who fears so few things, these
three words whip my psyche like a slave.
The bright lights
blind me. The sterile walls surround me.
The catheter travels up and through my artery.
The artery is completely blocked.
Plaque hardens in the valve. Too
close, too dangerous for a stint
or the balloon procedure.
OPEN-HEART SURGERY
is your only chance.
I stare up at the lights .
They flash with confusion.
Small white flakes fall from
the porous ceiling tiles as I lie in blank glare.
Beyond these thin curtains,
they laugh, make plans for their weekends.
I think of suicide . I am selfish.
The old lady in a blue robe
walks around the waiting room
and down the hall, staring out the window.
Does she find hope in her glare, her stare,
her gray hair, red lipstick?
She walks out the glass doors with wooden
frames and gold-gilded handles.
I want to say hi. But I am silent.
People walk by, give fake smiles.