THE URINE SPECIMEN

In the clinic, a sun-bleached shell of stone

on the shore of the city, you enter

the last small chamber, a little closet

chastened with pearl, cool, white, and glistening.

and over the chilly well of the toilet

you trickle your precious sum in a cup.

It's as simple as that. But the heat

of this gold your body's melted and poured out

into a form begins to enthrall you,

warming your hand with your fesh's fevers

in a terrible way. It's like holding

an organ-spleen or fatty pancreas,

a lobe from your foamy brain still steaming

with worry. You know that just outside

a nurse is waiting to cool it into a gel

and slice it onto a microscope slide

for the doctor, who in it will read your future.

wringing his hands. You lift the chalice and toast

the long life of your friend there in the mirror,

who wanly smiles, but does not drink to you.