Cathryn Shea

An Ear Full in the Waiting Room

The doctor is absent, not a hint of his/her presence as I sit fifty minutes going on how many more, unknown. The parking meter holds my many coins, grudgingly deposited to yield two hours. Surely, this appointment will not require more time than I purchased on the street patrolled by the career meter maid. Wax builds up in my left ear canal as I wait. I feel its insidious permeation and expansion, its plot to block my enjoyment of sound, to render me trapped by the sensation of having my head squeezed against a sound-proof window. Maybe the doctor has prejudged this request for ear washing a frivolous nuisance. Perhaps the appointment before me had an embolism. I should be grateful I have ears at all.

sunlight’s candle
hot on sidewalk
loud blue sky