I arrive rushed over beige carpets.
It’s sometimes late.
Often there is a meeting of hands, but
more often, there is a wiping of brows.
I ask for water.
If there is a chair, it’s mine
until the ordeal is over.
My first time, the mother wept.
Didn’t yell. Wept.
She wanted to see the infant’s head.
She wanted to know it was someone and not something
doing this to her and so she cried
until he showed himself to us.
Until he let us know that he was dissatisfied because
we were touching him.
Others want to be touched.
I’ll stay in the new rocker until the scene calms
and there is a breathing among them,
which I can leave unattended.
Afterwards, I like to go to the diner.
I like to have a cup.
The waitresses there know I need my time
and they give it to me, bringing me courses
while others wait.
I sit until the plates cool.
I make a notation about this day’s birth
and then I eat, returning the fork to the place
where I found it.