Elevator music hums like bees, audible but location impercievable. Welcomed the short knap of aqua-marine carpet flooring stiff on asphalt floor, lit by an ivory lamp glowing with refuge. Forced to play game of cat and mouse with elevator bell, sitting up with each door opening. It’s warm here, no creatures, and there’s light. Five-o-clock wake up to Phyllis and her husband first in line for surgery at six. Forget the dream: no swimsuits, no floating bottles of beer, no boat driven by an old man maneuvering through flooded streets and building roofs, no girl with adventure braids. Just big ears pinned to salty hair, topped with bushy perms or derby hats. TV awakes; I feel violated. Why must we doctor coffee before drinking it. Sun peaks over mountain rises. No one in the crowded waiting room seems to notice the moment I’ve waited for all night. Volunteer walking on white panted stilts scrubbing holes into disinfectant wipes sees it like a cat waiting to pounce. Blinds close with a flip of a switch, “don’t want people to feel like pheasant cooking under the sun.” I don’t belong here in Surgical Waiting.