98.6

The crinkly paper on the exam bed

sounds like a snack bag being torn.

The doctor left for a moment, he said,

leaving me feeling weary and worn.

The plastic sleeve is dry on my tongue,

a sterile, chemical taste in the mouth.

I wait for the beep while my spirits are hung

like a storm cloud heading down south.

The blue light glows with a digital stare,

counting the heat of the blood in my head.

I’m just a number in the clinical air,

waiting for someone to say what is dead.