Waiting room, another waiting world, faces all in numbers and news of the world, trying to get tips on the future [do they have that much time?]…the waiting cramped, unspacious, people standing between the chairs which are all filled, reading newspapers — business sections — casual clothes, walking shoes. The lobby is stuffed up. Yes, old men have so much to do during the day, picking their noses, sitting with their hands on the thighs or steepled in their laps as if they were directing their prayers to the beige wall. As someone rises, another sits down, all men except for Lynn. No one rises except to go into the Room. The door opens, relieving the staleness. Newspapers abandoned. Skinny legs shake.

Phlebotomist is good. Like running a Q-tip over my arm….moving up to kiss the crease…”You didn’t say ‘Ouch’, so I have to do it again” — could this be my calmness? Afterwards, a small bruise, a rose mole on an articulated trout, done with except for the urine sample, which refuses to come — Will they call me back for another shot at the orange-lidded cup? Looking for crumbling pieces of kidney floating in the yellow…People don’t want to know about this, but I’m writing it anyways. So many men go through this, as Paul said to me the other day “When you get to be our age, you realize why the life expectancy in so many countries is 50 years of age….” I would probably be assured my grave in four years, green lawn, no stipples except for a few days after they puncture the ground with a backhoe — the turf is a scar. Here a dead man is stuffed like a collagen sponge, here he plugs the earth.”