This stuff stays with you.

Nausea, exhaustion
illness of years,
guts empty, weak knees,
tottering the labyrinth
to the core where
The dreadful Minotaur--no--
workers bundled in blue,
white tiles,
cubicle curtains.

"The gown opens
in front."
"Don't slip, now,
sit here, on
the guerney."

I'm so cold,
so very cold.

Waiting
waiting
waiting
shivering
masks bustle up
all business,
they've lines to place,
green veins--
Pain!
then more
Pain!
thankful I
can't see it--
spinal...

"I won't
know,
will I?"

"No.
Take these."

Lie back begin
a sluggish spin,
the dizzy voyage
through cold ceramic tubes.
The fatal gate
crashes wide.

Shaking, chattering--
blue tiles here--
white light glares
on so much metal and a table,
so many sharps,
bright, shining,
laid in prim
glittering rows.

"Here I am," says
another mask,
stepping foward
to place
a hand on my
shoulder.

"Glad you could
make it, Doctor,"
I whisper, hoping
these aren't the last
words ever.