The Second Shot Poem by Suzanne Hayasaki

Here I sit, in seat 35
At the end of the line
Of a grid of seats,
Perfectly spaced
With grim-faced strangers
Awaiting our uncertain fate.

Yes, it's just a little prick
Administered by a professional
Brisk and efficient,
Feigning friendliness
As best as can be expected
From an assembly-line medic.

Three weeks earlier I followed the arrows,
Presented the papers, sat as instructed,
Progressed at a steady pace
Through the assembled maze
Of partitions, blank but for basic instructions.

The heat was oppressive.
The mask was smothering.
The stories of my sister and her
Odyssey in the Bronx
Set my anxieties galloping
Through my conscious mind
Though I thought I held the reins.

It ended in minor melodrama
With me on a bed, needing smelling salts
Like some matron whose stays were pulled too tight.
My husband fetched me and escorted me home
And I survived my tiny trial.

But today I will not fall!
I will do battle with my anxiety
And retain my dignity!
But how?

And I remember Wordsworth!
I will wander lonely as a cloud -
Through the photos on my iPhone.
I cannot lie in solitude upon my couch,
But I can sit and gaze at tiny images
Of majestic seascapes
Taken in the hope of spring
Or the revival of fall.
And I will escape from this colorless room
With its tiny islands of social distance
And alcohol spray and hidden faces.

And I will both remember and look forward
To what must come: a return of some kind of normality
Where I can hug my sons and laugh face close to face
With my neighbors as if human breath
Carried the human spirit instead of death.