Before They Called My Name

I got there twelve minutes early.

Ironed the shirt the night before.

Checked the collar in the rearview.

I pushed through the revolving door

into air-conditioning, into

the particular quiet of a building

that doesn't know your name yet.

Four months without one.

My body remembered everything it stood to lose.

I felt it before I looked.

The fabric going heavy where it shouldn't.

I looked down and there it was:

the half-moon under the left arm,

already declared, already visible

to whoever happened to look.

I pressed the arm down.

I looked at the ceiling.

The receptionist answered the phone

and said yes, and yes, and I'll let him know.

When they called my name I stood up

and the back of the shirt peeled away

like something reluctant.

I shook the hand of the man who came out.

I said thank you for having me.

He said how was the drive.

I said easy.

I said fine.

I said no problem at all.