It looks like some sort of strange version of a concentration camp waiting room
we sit here in our matching drab khaki-coloured kimonos
with the opening at the front
the television's audio cuts in and out
and the image is shattered pixelation from a disrupted digital reception
but we stare at it anyway
or at our phones
careful to avoid acknowledging each other
As we wait I see she's crying
silently
just enough to require she dab the end of her nose with a tissue
she's texting someone
something, no doubt, no one should ever have to write
or read
she has the most perfect painted-pink toenails
beautiful in tan sandals
such an image of gorgeous femininity
while she sits in this clinic that detects malignancies
and I feel such overwhelming pride in the strength of my gender
my name is called and I lay down and open the robe
I think "God be with me" and she starts to probe
