In dressing room 2, at the end of the hall, on the right
sits a vase of fake flowers with its never-rotting blooms,
beside a TV quietly playing a home makeover show—
the theme of reconstruction hangs thick in the air.
Soft pink gowns with swirling blooms
hug hunched bodies,
eyes locked on screens and books.
We ignore our shared reality,
the thread connecting us.
We wait
for our name to be called
for answers
for results
A lottery no one asked to play.
And though I’ve never won a raffle,
I can’t help but wonder if today is the day.
And wouldn’t that be ironic?
One by one, we each leave dressing room 2,
our complimentary plastic bag in hand.
Another will come to take our place,
because another always comes to take your place.
That’s what those waxy fake flowers
don’t want you to know;
the reality of living things—
in time, we all wither.
2 thoughts on "In dressing room 2, at the end of the hall, on the right"
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your poem captures the hyperawareness in waiting rooms, especially in a roomful of people waiting to have a mammogram. love the last line especially
Love all this specificity. It really captures a moment in time. And beginning and ending with the fake flowers works really, really well.