Sitting on the edge of the bed, feet swinging back and forth,
I’m able to kick the medical table.
Back of the door an eye chart, cover one eye as I wait.
Paper gown, hope my back end won’t show,
Remember to sit straight.
I hear him fumbling with my medical chart,
This is my room yet he doesn’t knock,
In he bounds with a start.
He ambles to his chair, my chart he does prose,
Hand on his chin, deep thought,
He strikes his doctor pose.
Condescending, “What can I do for you today.”
I ramble all that is wrong, much to say.
He doesn’t look like a doctor,
But like my Labrador dog.
Must be hearing, I see his ears perk up,
As I spout my blog.
Mmhhmm and uh huh, his only dialogue, he writes.
Closed chart, long pause, he considers what is right.
Lay back now, blood pressure, let’s check you out.
Ears, nose and throat, cold stethoscope,
I almost shout.
What does he expect to hear from my mammary,
Nowhere near my heart.
It must be whispering something vital,
He didn’t listen this intently at the start.
Again he is writing, will he ever stop?
I must be really sick.
Wads of tiny papers shoved at me,
He bounds for the door, this will do the trick.
