I am just like you
though you can’t see
my gushing head wound
like the elderly man
to my right.
He slumps in his wheelchair
as his wife holds a bag of ice
to his forehead.

To the little boy staring
between visits to the green
plastic sick bag,
scared of my trembling body:
I am sick too
though I have no fever like you.
He’s a deer in the headlights
until his mother scolds
him for being rude.

To the receptionist who swears
it will only be a minute
as people scream for dear life:
I feel your pain.
I know what it is like to not be able
to help and feel helpless.
I’ve waited six hours thus far
for someone to tell me something
I already know.

To my impatient father
and my mother
who just doesn’t understand
why exactly we’re here:
this isn’t an act,
it’s a cry for help.

But unlike the elderly man,
I will leave with no gauze
or cast
or colorful Band Aid.
I will not leave with orders
for bedrest. I will leave
with my head held low,
just as exhausted
as I was before.