Waiting Room Blues


I wish there was something worth reading

but the doctor’s waiting room

is like a home for unwanted magazines,

ancient People with pages torn out,

a scraggy looking Sports Illustrated

previewing a world series that was played

months ago.

And then there’s the medical rags,

every sickly base covered

by glaring ads with grinning people

pushing every drug on the market.

Toss in the persistent cougher two seats

down from me and the woman whining

because her appointment’s already

twenty minutes overdue

and you have a whole other disease

that I, unfortunately, can’t help catching:

a low grade virus incorporating

a lack of faith on the part of the medical profession

in the interests and mental aptitude of their patients

crossed with a waning enthusiasm

for my fellow unhealthy human beings.

The only cure that I know of

is a nurse calling out my name

and a doctor poking down my mouth,

listening to my heart beat

and making me deep breathe.

In the MD’s knowledgeable hands,

I can be sicker than I’ve ever felt in my entire life

but oh so much better for it.

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