someone else's errands

they play a cooking show in the waiting room. old televisions hang from wires in the ceiling. the housewives make a meringue, watching over impatient coughing and clicking of keys. I close my eyes and let their directions colonise my thinking: two-fifty degrees for one and three quarter hours. crisp and ready to melt in my mouth. 

the doctor draws the patterns from the blood they took to tell me I'm alright. a shopping list of chemicals in order. praise for balance beyond my control. big words that might make sense with more attention. apparently the bloods say everything is mostly looking good. she scribes out vitamins I need to take to keep up with the sun. I can't quite read her writing. she wishes me good luck.

we fix our hair and watch the city crumble into clouds of smoke. call for reruns of tears and words that can only mean less. pathetic global conceit veiled with cellophane as conscience. I laugh at myself through my phone. waiting long enough to grow beyond the feeling, if it mattered. brace the traffic to get home between the wind and time for someone else's errands.