The EMT’s made great time
when minutes count, the vise
in my chest stretching seconds
to eons, my will rewritten
in my head on the floor
of the WalMart, next to the socks.
Then: electrodes, calm
reassurances that don’t
reassure, an IV, oxygen
in a mask that doesn’t hide
my face from voyeuristic
shoppers and clerks on a Saturday.
A gurney ride past the cashier
(I never got my socks) and out
the door, eyes following. I know what
everyone will be talking about at dinner.
A secret little part of me wishes
that would happen every day
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