Another Day in the Waiting Room by Zachari Popour

we all check in.
slouched in single file to
hear the receptionists woodenly tone
tell us to have a seat in
leather chairs and couches
beneath fluorescent lights that
make our skin glow pale blue.

we all wait,
impatiently patient.
every so often one of the floor
gazers will raise their head.
i noticed she was eyeing up the
3 canvases i had set beside my chair.

"is that your artwork?"

"yeah. i told the Dr. that i paint and
he wanted to see some of the product."

"may i see them?"

this drew everyone's attention
and i wished i were invisible.
she waved them around. showcasing each
piece to the others while she exclaimed,
as did the others,
that i have talent.
i don't believe in talent
when so many talentless live lives
based on luck.

we discussed the emotional shambles
of the great artists.
an artist i am not.
we discussed Gogh, his ear,
substance abuse, and genius.
a genius i am not.

she handed them back
and i forced a smirk as the room
bloomed into conversation.
i sat and listened and waited
for my name to be called
so i could reach towards a 1950s
sitcom state at the bottom
of a prescription bottle.
they talked and talked.

the drug addicts
the battered housewives
the drunks.
relating to each other with
liquid nitrogen soaked voices
breaking like a fumbled vase
that was quickly pasted back together.
broken and fragile.
everyone has a story.

we are all decapitated serpents
writhing in the hands of a smug child.
there is enough rejection
within these 4 walls
within these doomed souls
to make any zero feel like they're number 1.

my name is called
finally
and i pick up my paintings
and make the long walk down the hall
to his office.

"ahhh. you have some artwork!"

he took them all from me,
placed them around the room,
and stood backsmiling.

"how much you want for this one?"

"i dunno; it's up to you."

"no. they are your creations."

i said $15 for materials
but he gave me $25.

"now i have a piece of you."

he isn't the only one.