SUSAN ELMSLIE: A POEM

SUSAN ELMSLIE

In Praise of Hospital Cafeterias

Water, is taught by thirst. — Emily Dickinson

Not exactly an oasis in the desert,

but as you bide time before the biopsy

or loosen your watch to let the news

sink in, good to avail yourself

of the $2.22 coffee & muffin combo

or Fairlee pulp-free OJ and bagel,

benign beige plastic chair,

dusty plant languishing on a ledge:

a single bloom, reaching

toward the window’s frosted glass.

On another day this plant

would be giving God the finger. 

The food service worker’s skirt

argues with her butt.  Luck

sounds like a word a baby might say,

trying out her tongue.  So what

if you have forgotten the common names

of trees, the taste of a carrot with the dirt

just rubbed off, which bird

says, youcheeseburger, cheeseburger,

cheeseburger, cheeseburg.

There is ordinary comfort in wrapped straws.

A lady is scraping a muffin paper

with her teeth, so

beautiful.  For now

there is no bloom of blood in the syringe—

magenta, a magician’s scarf.

Here you are:

a hiatus before climbing an endless flight

of unpainted stairs or sitting at home, suffering

the Muzak of the incontinent faucet.

"In Praise of Hospital Cafeterias" first appeared in Prism 52:4. Reproduced here by permission of the author.