At the Remodeled Tumor Clinic

The Tumor Clinic waiting room is larger now,
with a pink and jungle green colour scheme.
There’s a greenhouse on the south wall
where goldfish, big as guinea pigs,
swim in lazy, distracting circles.
Group of chairs  are arranged,
like camp stools, looking inward
toward cellular apocalypse.
Under looming tropical plant walls
we pray for cure, the excising
of the heart of darkness, malevolent
within us. The natives are resting less,
waiting in-patiently for Kurtz and chemo.
The horror, the horror…
We diseased fauna will forgive him any atrocity,
make him our king, napalm our veins,
essential offerings for an insane venture.
Resigned, I safari to the admission desk.
Kilgore greets me with a chipper smile,
tells me Willard will be out to get me directly,
asks me what I think of the new décor.
“Pink and green are so much more cheerful,” he says
but we both know nothing can disguise
the smell of chemo in the morning.