October
11, Noon: Friends and Other Strangers
by Angela Consolo Mankiewicz
Instead of
plaster, massive plates of glass
pretend to be a
wall; they pass me by,
bouncing autumn
sun off my eyes, playing
back a
too-familiar image: Me. Here.
It isn't right, a
hospital you see through;
a hospital you
see through has no shame.
I need my
wall.
Not loving
friends.
I learned the
rules of waiting lightyears past;
I pass GO
everytime, on every roll, without repeating:
I'm ok, honest.
They're driving
in by now, they can't be stopped -
damn them - why
did I say Come?
In
case. In case of what? In case the shaman's
tools,
gleaming in a stranger's hands, slip.
That's what they
think. But that bet's safe,
riding smug and
easy on veteran skill,
making the 1st
cut for biopsy 2,
the one they
don't know about, the one
that counts, the
one that says: Ok - Continue, or,
Sorry - too late,
after all - Close him up.
I should have
heard by now,
before they find
a place to park, flounder
through 6 tiers
of lobbies, sight me
among my peers.
What's wrong with
them? Don't they know civility demands
that screams be
secret? Don't they know
I can't be
touched today? I can't
be seen today?
Why
not? What could they see?
Me. Alone.
Like them.
They'll
reach for me, they'll
think
their words are more than
poundings
in my head.
I take a walk and
have a cigarette.
I look at
windows, hold a magazine.
They said they'd
be here, twelve o'clock, they said.
What time is
it? It's 12:05. They're late.
~ first published in Sensations
