INTERNAL MEDICINE

 

A doctor’s waiting room—where

everyone who came in after you

is called first—is a fine place to

inspect the quality of your mind.

 

There you may discover the difference

between how you have been and how

you would like to be. The hunched elder

emerges after his exam, sliding walker,

 

dragging feet, first right, then left, grinning—

in spite of, because of, to cajole, or annoy—

his able-bodied wife, who waits, her face flat

with impatience, several feet ahead.

 

Oh, how she despises who he has become,

her once-dashing professor, perhaps, or

sought-after surgeon, formidable father,

now a barely moving sloughing skeleton

 

of himself. He sings, “Wait for me,

wait for me, Johnny please wait for me!”

Winking, letting his audience know

he is still, in this way at least, in charge.

 

She offers no smile, having heard it,

and now simply cannot bear his

performance—such a good attitude!—

against her undisguisable contempt.

 

Long after they exit, you remain waiting,

wondering: were you her, would you be

wishing for his demise—your freedom—

or a heart that could join him in song?