In the VA Waiting Room

Kristen Lenea Ryberg

photo by Benjamin Lehman [contrast changed & cropped]

In the VA Waiting Room

TV blares Wheel of Fortune; 
I pick up the newsletter: 
 
Shadarius Barksdale, a big guy in mental health, featured under a flag,
gave his only coat to an equally sized veteran in the cold of Christmas.
Shadarius said, “I treat people as I want to be treated, what you put out 
is what you get back.”
 
Through the fixed-glass window
flags undulate—in lazy unfurl. 
The largest, rotunda-centered, 
stretches—curls—end snaps to attention


s      u      r      v      e      y      s	    
the campus as a God.
Enormous oaks
STAND  in F O R M A T I O N	    
s     u      r      r      o      u      n      d 
BLOCKS of BRICK BUILDINGS. 
 
Campus, sounds like a place of learning, 
it is a place of giving, 
including up. If I stand up, in front of a mirror, 
in one hand hold another mirror
—the other—a  flag—reflecting flags infinitum, 
could they become a penetrating treatment?
 
Could w  a  r  p  e  d  stars and stripes from woven threads 
staunch the bleeding— control the destructive disease? 

US Flag Code
5500 words long; 
the flag represents
a living country, 
is itself considered 
a living thing.  

All living things must be fed.
 
Nurse calls a name, 

Wheel of Fortune contestant closes in
on a three-word phrase
guesses B—the missing clue
clapping to
ABOVE AND  BEYOND.