WAITING TO TALK TO THE RADIOLOGIST
Waiting to talk to the radiologist at the Burr Cancer Wing
in Kingston Ontario by a fortified lake of grey round houses.
Homogenized labyrinth of anonymous posters in the halls
of undecorated functional duplicate rooms doubling arithmetically
as moonlight incommensurables. Where the hell am I?
I ask for directions from sympathetic lighthouses eager
to guide me like Rubrich’s cubes deeper into my bafflement
pharmaceutically emotionally isotopically induced.
I want to carry my own road sign protest placard
wherever I go from now on like a cross I’m willing to bear
in the name of knowing where where where am I going.
Cancer Clinic Burr Wing Level l. The doctor will see
you earlier. Wait here please. Fill out these forms.
Cold black plastic vinyl chairs with people sitting in them
sporadically like the last of their teeth in an ass’s jawbone.
Sad foggy faraway look on everyone’s faces and a few
like me trying to face the whole situation a bit too cheerfully.
Dr. Phain. Great name. Epiphany. Sends two interns
in advance like Rosenbrendancrantz and Guildenhilda
to interview me too mechanically inquisitively
to make me feel they’re not so much interested
in interviewing me as a symptom they read about
in their medical texts who suddenly incarnated
as the skeleton of Pygmalion who is answering
them in his bones like bamboo windchimes of what
they want to hear until the doctor gets here and makes
everthing muggy and clear as musical chairs on a merry go round
and round and round and round as a jinxed plaid prayerwheel.
I’m in a hostage situation with Munich syndrome centred
on the radiologist explaining to me the half life of the patient
as all the U-238 in the room slowly turns to dead lead
base metal iron pyrite stoned philosopher’s fool’s gold
disenchanting him of the false dawn of the false hope
he’s going to live more than another six months of this.
Everybody writes that down like check mark quill feathers
dipped in the ink pots of little boxes little blue boxes on forms.
Meantime I stare out the window at northern Lake Ontario
gusting deep midnight Prussian blue with angry white caps
cantering out of suffrage instead of galloping with gusto
through a Tom Thomson painting of a bleak northern lake
as over on the further shore dozens of windmills, windmills, windmills
tall as the war of the worlds bouquet and spread
like wildflowers along the borders of mournful grass leafless elms
and some sad woman always walking off into nowhere
as a sundog light burst breaks through the clouds
it halos in the encircling sky as a sign of the fact
I’m not going to conquer anything like Constantine in the name
of a sign like this no matter how alluringly beautiful and soothing
it is through the dirty grime of the grey cancer clinic windows.
I have my prescription renewed for thrush, 100 more \
4 milligram pills of apo-dexamethasone and an ointment that will help
soften the scales in the crack of my ass like moonlight in a niche
of silver. Rosenbrendancrantz takes a look. Says. It’s got
nothing to do with me. You better see your GP.
Must be nice to be an expert that doesn’t help without permission.