Ⅰ
By Friday, I should have my shit together,
a woman behind the pale green curtain says.
I laugh quietly, understanding
the understatement.

The nurse hanging saline,
pretends not to hear.

The infusion center is full today: chairs cramp
snug rooms, IV poles cling beside us
like awkward dance partners.

Arrrrrrr— my arm cuff inflates.

Some of us are here to fight cancer.
Some of us are here because our bodies
have forgotten how to behave.

Tick…tick…phhsh— the tightness deflates.

                                ⅠⅠ
The nurse gathers supplies at the station,
speaking in low voices about vacations,
their children, what wafting food
they’re bringing today.

When will the cable be fixed?    By Friday.
When will Dr. Heart be back?    By Friday.
When will scheduling call?        Wednesday,
                                                        if not, by Friday.

I watch the medication drip into my arm.
Since by Friday, my assignments may be finished.
My laundry may be folded. The dishes may be done.

                                ⅠⅠⅠ
Chirp! Click click, click click click…

By Friday, the man to the left of me
might learn if the treatment worked.

By Friday, the woman through the curtain
may finally have her shit together.

Chirp! Beep beep. Chirp!

in six weeks
I will return to chair no. 3

And by Friday,
the stranger next to me
might not.

                                                                                    *An after poem, “By Monday,” by Remi Aubuchon