White paper crinkles
beneath my body.
I half-ignore him as he considers
the status of this illness. My breathing
follows an imagined track which leads
directly out of this beige room,
a room cold as
a frozen food aisle
but conspicuously sterile. He reaches
with small flourishes into glass jars
and displays a swab and tongue depressor
like two samples from a product line.
Beyond him, arranged along the wall,
magazines stand in a wooden rack.
Near pamphlets on heart attack and stroke,
recipes and actresses compete to give me
fresh suggestions for better living.
When his prescription
pad snaps closed
and shows the gold-lettered name
of a new medication, his wristwatch
exhales loud seconds which we allow
to speak for my own hoarse voice.