WHITTLED

Remembering my youth

when I towered above the shore

casting my shadow over

darting fish and

busy crawdads.

Some days, I’d bury my head

in the clouds and catch

raindrops, letting them

slip down and down and down.

Now I am old, whittled,

a fraction of what I was

resting on the shore

watching the sun pass

through the sky

and basking in

its warmth.

waiting

Turn the key and leave the room,
through recycled and refrigerated air
to the waiting room where
the waiting
begins.

Another woman joins me
tugging at the belt of her
elf sized robe. Carefully
we avoid eye contact
and pretend to read the
dog eared magazines
strewn across the table,
waiting for our turns
at the mammo machine.