Dr. Shecter and his November Issue of Running

by Amy Soricelli

She could say in her head you could surf - do water sports.
She could say that - yeah - from the glossy magazine by her side.
She could be thinking i could be dying here by the flowery plant i paid for with my co-pay;
She stares down the dead edges.
This could be the last time i sit in this office feeling young. maybe not dying.
The other magazines were food recipes wooden spoons from Paris nailed onto kitchen walls.
Who could be hungry here.
So she thinks i can rip out this face in the ad shove her deep in my winter coat pocket;
in the inside/the one on the inside because it pours out sometimes
stuff gets lost/that's okay it's a test.
She thinks if i control this i could live with this in my hands in my wallet i could see
this girl with her perfect everything - remember this better.
So she does - one perfect slice.
Rips it out miss perfect hair that blonde streaky hair- always wanted that;
add it to the list before she dies.
Add it to a list like the one her old dad carries around in his wallet with his license.
The never happened to me now this list.
They look at her/the angry young dying girl in the upper east side doctors office
pulling hope out of the magazine like a perfume strip.
Her name called - she goes in / yeah she ripped it-
glaring down the aisle of deep expensive seats/weaving between the next in line like her.
Ripped out the brave face pulled down from her own.
Less than thirty minutes drawn off the black light around her -
the now not-dying girl smooths the pages back down in the magazine;
leaving it for the next almost-dying person to roll into a ball before she knows.