Diagnosis

I stared at the desk,  a tray
With ball point pens, prescription
Pad, lab results, paperclips,
Large hands occasionally
Gesturing, while he explained
What I could not comprehend.

Ugly rust-orange carpet
Seemed to fall out from under
My feet. Having spent more time
In ballet shoes than sneakers
They now screamed in agony
As I felt my future die.

I let the conversation
Tune out, but random words slipped
Through my unwilling conscious,
Words like "paralysis" and
"Chronic" and "medications"
And then two more words: "no cure."

I stared at the desk, the tray
With ball point pens, paperclips
Lab results and scribbled notes,
Notes I didn't want to read,
Or know, while dirty beige blinds
Blocked my view,  and my escape.


Caren E. Salas