At the Vein Specialist's Office

"Do you do those things?" the nurse asked.
"Do what?" I said.
"Nevermind," she said. "Just respect us."

Case of  rude patients problem. I smiled. "Respecting
the respectable people is my name."
"Put on only undie, wear the gown, and lie on the table." her
voice was windy. Case of rude nurse. I sighed for the missing Please. 
But quickly dismissed it; I was more concerned of the dreadful
pain I was about to face.

I recalled the receptionist's caution: "Wear a thick diaper. the pain
will shock you." So I did as instructed. 
The pain. The thick diaper. Goosebumps shooting out on
my varicose-veined leg. I took a deep breath. After removing
the problemetic vein, I will be free of pain. 

A young doctor in his white gown came in. And stood close
to my table and stared at me in the gown and the senior diaper,
the poor leg waiting for surgery. 
"Oh, sooo cute," he said. "I want to hug and writhe on the bed.
She's just like my mom." His eyes lingered some more.
I removed the facial mask, and told him, "I know I am incredible 
shrunken old lady. Please start and get it over with the surgery."

"Oh, sure," he said. "I was thinking how the vein should be 
removed; cut at the low end, and then the upper thigh one.
Before that, this and that should be done."
I shuddered. 

What seemed hours later, the surgery was over. 
I was genuinly thankful for his ardent effort. 
"Thanks, doc. The pain is less thatn I feared."

"Good to hear it," he said. And quickly left the room.
Quicker than I wanted him to be. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

AI Bird in the Morning

Like an old lady's hair,
the sky is gray,
even the birds are hiding.
When the insomniac writhes
in the bed with winter gloom,
a sudden bird sings in the room,
lifting the mood.
It sings again.
No bird, but a broken alarm,
chrirp, chirp. such a preety voice,
as if to say, Happy Thanksgiving!

© Byung A. Fallgren

She Wishes to be in the Wall

When teenager, she flew round the univerce,
charmed by the stars that fill her heart with
colorful dreams with bright patterns;
when twenties, she moved to the city where
her beloved dream, the fragile fledging nests;
she would not leave her side, even the
handsome lover has no power to keep her;
when thirties, and beyond, she is alone, but
enjoys to be with her dream, the true love;
sixties come around, to remind her to be
unshaken, with no tears, which only makes
her to love the furrows and loose fleshes,
within and without;
pushing seventy, she knows the only place she
would go to is in the wall, the silent and lofty wall,
to be with the other lonly, yet proud souls. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

The Horseshoe Creek

The dirt road stretched miles,
nearly two hours of bumpy ride.
what draws us there again and again?

The sitting black boulders on the hillside,
the twitching ears, slow-moving maws,
and the grayed cow-pies, the signs of life
of the boulders. The ghostly dwellings,
undying ladies of the Silver Mine in its hay days,
 
the tattered white curtains of the broken windows,
waving in the winds, welcome the passersby;
as the old school bell rings of silent call
for the shouting and laughing children.
a little yellow butterfly suddenly appears
flutters away ahead,
as the distant mountain of forests smiles,
like grandpa at the Senior Living Place.

Swoosh of clammers of the pines, and
cluck-cluck of wild turkeys sauntering near
by the creek that sings the deep water and
the hidden school of fish; simple, fresh feature
of the place, whirling deep sense of comfort;
the generous Mother Nature's rec. center;
we toss a line, have a picnic, and so on,
and leave, and come again, and again. 

©Byung A. Fallgren