Kin
       

On a coffinlike
table tethered
by plastic straps,
a leash of sorts,
I think of Howie
the spaniel-eyed mutt
                          now mine
caged last week
at the animal shelter.

                He was panting
                nose quivering
                not decoding
                strange sounds,

                        pings & bangs
                        that speak
                        in tongues.

An artificial breeze
pretends fresh air
inside my carapace,
a mirror flirts with
the ceiling/ sky,
the technician's room.

The room's there, not
                                  there.

A hollow
voice in my ear
says
            Breathe even breaths.
            Instructed I clench a plastic rod
            between my teeth.

            At home Howie worries a plastic bone.

The technician
one room away
talks to the nurse
ever so faintly.

I hear him say,

            When I ask her
            a question
            she barks back at me.

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Copyright © 2020 Judith Pacht All rights reserved
from Infirmary for a Private Soul
Tebot Bach
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission