Patient Belongings

John Willson

i
Belongings: The short-sleeved blouse,
its paisley rayon desperate
to breathe light in your form;
the comb that hungers
for the pull of your hair;
the wristwatch, clicking in stir,

whose dream embraces your pulse.
Pathetic fallacy aside, how could
such things harbor a virtue
that stems from pati,
Latin, to endure? Endure
they do, with other items

you traded for a backless gown, personal
effects in a white plastic bag
with blue lettering.
Your liver endures the scalpel’s maneuvers.
Prisoner of the Waiting
Room smothering me like a bag,

I endure the madness
of not knowing, the urge to lift
the fish tank, hurl it
through the window.
I fear the spot
of impatient cells.