with the heat packs on my shoulders,
just laying facedown in the dark
with my face in that little uncomfortable donut.
Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah play's
from the waiting room, where
I can also hear the receptionists gossiping;
I wonder what they'll say about my health insurance.
I try to relax, be in the moment,
but I literally think about everything
for eight long, hollow minutes,
from mask wearing to money, existence, keto lunch.
My back cracked my 4th of July,
and the doctor asked about my tattoos,
which elicited my vague answers,
and now I lay hear questioning everything.
I wish I could look at my phone,
but it's not possible with my face in the donut.
Finally the timer goes off,
but no one comes to tell me what to do.