|Sea shells on the seashore by Gideon Chilton|
Today’s 7:30 a.m. appointment,
a screening MRI.
I wait on the platform
in classic dead man’s pose.
“Breathe and hold still,”
a disembodied voice directs.
The machine whumps its own language,
the platform slides into the tube,
my closed eyelids trace flashing lights.
I imagine the round, narrow tube
encircling me now
with sea shells and green waves,
and the test is over.
“Have you had cancer before?” the attendant asks
as she helps me to the waiting room.
I look at my gnarled hands and shake my head.
We all travel this way, diagnosed or not,
but not immortal.
Note: This morning I sat in the waiting room, wondering how I could write a poem for OctPoWriMo today. Allen's MRI went fine, but I remember other friends and other times. Today's prompt: Showing up.