High Hopes
Molly Conway
She’s a fourty-four year old child
obese, breath shallow and rapid
she leans forward in her padded mauve chair
the waiting room is empty
It’s 2:45 on a Friday afternoon
the interview rooms must be filled with 2:00 appointment
she holds the clipboard perpendicular on her numb thighs
with no lap to set it on
she fills out the forms
her shoulders drooping and both brassier straps hanging
tugging at her upper arms
she leaves them there, weary of moving them up
same old questions answered many times
this time for occupation she writes “Poet”
instead of “none” or “disabled”
and smiles to herself at having done so
there’s a padded quilt on the walls
framed on a black board
it’s geometric shapes
catch her eye and she traces the tidy lines
it’s beige and mauve, to match the chairs
to match the thick carpet
the room is open on one end
with stairs leading downward
she’s been the rounds today
crisis line, mental health, emergency room
she found no ears to listen gently
to her soul’s contortions
dare she hope?
that this time it will be different?
it’s been years
since she found a sympathetic face
she’s found her voice
gravely, low, but audible
and the strength to speak up
and the discovery that she has some power
it may be another dead end
more locked doors to try and then withdraw
but there’s a bright spring day outside
and she rises up to meet the soaring white clouds
