Saturday Afternoon

The fan atop the microwave’s off, but the air is on, so

it streams through vents above my desk, rustling sheets on the sticky board:

“Community Resource Guide,” “Counseling Services Sliding Scale,”

phone numbers, extensions, a schedule.

My body is like those papers, moved by the air of the patients:

disheveled, angry, anxious, bewildered, wanting to die, arriving in crisis.

 

My mind, exhausted from double shifts, is like the fan, its white propeller

(desire) un-turning, off.  For now it’s lost its color.

 

(A child cried so intensely today he swallowed enough of his tears to vomit.

Taken by ambulance away, he left the center eerily quiet.)

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