Another poem

HIV MEDITATIONS

I: Waiting to Get the Results

I let the first bus pass me while I smoked,
like the passage of nicotine outweighed my next
destination. I watch the people around me, as
the Omaha skyline accepts another sunset; a
small furry man with crumpled army fatigues
wanders from person to person, reciting his
soliloquy for quarters. He smells like the coffee
plant down by the bank of the Missouri.

I mumble a half-assed apology when it's my turn,
and watch three kids, with torn shirts and shaved heads,
attempt skateboard tricks on the curb. I start to feel
the afternoon press on my shirt in waves of nervous
sweat. Two hours, two more hours until some
volunteer gives me one of the biggest "yes" or "no"
answers of my life. I try to change the subject
by studying the derelict passed out on the next block.

A later bus comes; I scramble to make a positive face,
create a little dress-rehearsal as I drop three quarters,
a dime and a nickel down the metal chute. I thought,
it shouldn't hurt this bad, and sat in the side seats,
saved for the old and weak. I watch spring struggle
to be seen in those pieces of lawn between the sidewalk
and the curb; my eyes close in silent prayer.
I follow an old woman who struggles off the bus.



II: Looking Through the Closet


I have spent days deciding which pair of pants
are past the point of hiding the weight loss, like
reaping the wheat in October's late harvesting.
Only three years ago, I would brag about this
quest to friends at the bar, now I see this as
another mark on my checklist of acceptance.

In the mornings, before anyone is awake,
I watch my medication melt in a glass filled
with lukewarm water. My body does not
want this, and tells me with each spasm
as I take another sip, and watch the dawn.

I watch each sniffle and sneeze like it is
the climax of a movie and the detective
has decided to share his secrets and clues
with the innocent bystanders before the credits
roll up the screen. I marvel at my fear now.

I remember the busride, and on those days
when I feel my muscles betray me, I wonder
if the answer would have been different
if I smoked one less cigarette. I wonder
if my pants would still fit, if my mornings would be quiet.


- Brian E. Bengtson