Thin gowns. Paper sheets.
Stirrups for my cold, bare feet.
Long deep breaths to get me through.
Scraping, pressing, turning blue.
Poking. Prodding. Felt for lumps.
Going in cup. Asked about dumps.
Nothing personal; it’s part of the ride
Of getting checked from all inside.
A few more years, then getting squished
Will be added to the dreaded list.
Wish me luck, feel my pain,
At least condolences you could feign.
Once a year, it’s my fate.
3pm today; it’s a date.