“I don’t want to alarm you, but . . . . ”
strikes the eardrum first. And then
trailing its wake of silence.
Tonight you have been detained
in the holding tank of gel and electrodes
where a stylus monitors your quaking.
Again you are made
to repeat your name.
In the hush and babble of the ER
the whitecoats hover and confer.
Lucky you! Not a single positive
You may go home
to that other life with its soothing clatter,
the required emotions.
Once again you have passed the test
for the wrong disaster.