Anticipaton

bare ass
on wrinkled paper
stirrups sparkle


I was inspired by this poem written by Ted Burke.

Waiting room

I hang up my hat
and sit where they tell me

a white room filled with
rolls of white tissue

sleek instruments
in glass jars

the door is closed
the room has no clock

I fold my hands,
read the diplomas and charts

learn the names
of body parts

that are acting up
or getting rowdy

or bring me pains
that signal that it’s time
to go home,

several phones ring at once,
every nerve sobs as one,

there is no clock,
no telling what time it is
or how much I’ll take home with me,

I recite bus schedules
until the door knob twists

and air rushes into the
room in a gasp

like someone finally
taking a breath
just before they black out.

© 2007 Ted Burke
reprinted with permission

mile marker 124

drifting smoke
sooted rabbits --
grey hawks circle