The Slant

The clipboard is cold against my knees.

I have to check 'no' for a dozen different pains

while the fluorescent light hums a disease

and the waiting room wall shows its water stains.

I bite the blue plastic clip of the pen,

leaving jagged little teeth marks in the grip.

My name used to stand like a line of brave men,

but now the letters just stumble and slip.

The 'S' is a dash, a flat-lining heart,

a signature tired of holding its form.

I can’t find the place where the loops used to start

before the ink ran out and the paper got warm.