John Fox wrote this poem when he was 18 and confronting the amputation of his right leg below the knee. He called poetry at that time “a companion in the dark,” making him pay attention to his life.” He says, “That receptivity made a difference because it required that I consider not only what I experienced in relationship to my life but also what life was bringing to me. You may e-mail John at www.poeticmedicine.com or

call 650.400-3345

IN THE HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM

There was a child went forth every day.

And the first object he looked upon, that object he became.

And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part

of the day.

Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.

--Walt Whitman

The people are seated in the chairs, lined

in the halls and waiting:

some looking at Time, most somber:

save two little girls, patient

and singing – one’s embroidering,

a singing embroidery!

Waiting for nothing, skipping along

past the people, past office partitions

that are not there for these little children,

so much like garden-walkers!

Whitman, I go forth, yet, shall I become

pictures of my bones?

X-rayed through this dense sea, this film shows me

the heavy anchor that I seem to be.

This goes deepest.

Behind the picture is light!