Panic Button

Two plant pots containing my breasts, 

the good one and the bad, 

rest beneath my aching ribs as I attempt 

to breathe gentle like they tell me, 



and not as my mind advises,

in gulps of bucking panic. 



I can't do this - yes you can, 

and down the tube I go. Feel the darkness 

pressing in around my down-faced prone. 

Halt breath until I'm still again - 

snot dripping - nothing



I can do but sniff, or let it flow. Half an hour 

in this buzzing, chugging craft is but a lifetime

when the only comfort is the bulb 

I hold in my left Palm. 



I wonder what happens if I squeeze it, 



will they really come? 

30 minutes later, I'm out of there - filled with                                                                 uncertainty and a residue of dye.