The day before
you would have
turned sixty-seven
is a sterile
waiting room
doused in beige.
The beginning
is a paisley
print. The
feeling is toes
tingling.
The day before
is a red
and black
biohazard sign.
But not like
Stendhal. The
trash inside
is potential
cata strophe.
The day before
is fluorescent
lighting under which
only the black
nurse remains
beautiful.
The day before
is unplanned
by the party
no one will
be having.
Confetti is
a fleck
in the doctor's
pupil. Knuckles
crack like
fireworks.
The day before
is a rubber wheel
skidding across
shiny, waxed floors
while the nurse
draws blood
from beneath
heavy-steepled
eyes.
The day before
your birthday
a color wheel
dies.
