Jean McLeod’s most recent poem to appear here was MRI (June 2012).
Office Visit
By Jean McLeod
The doctor, young of visage
long on knowledge
scrolls through test results
as I sit on the other side
of his monitor.
Well.
He taps his lip
with his index finger.
Well.
He fidgets with his stethoscope.
We both know he doesn’t
need it today
listens
to my lungs anyway
–Clear–he says–
uh huh–I’ve never had a lung problem
takes my pulse, temperature,
though the nurse charted them
not ten minutes ago–scowls at his
image reflected over my MRI
on the screen.
If he tilted the monitor
I could read the results myself.
Just tell me, already,
I want to scream.
Nothing can be worse
than this waiting.
And then, he does.
And then, it is.
Jean, this had my heart racing. Now you have left us not knowing. Please–let me know.
This is very real, Jean. I think a lot of us can relate to it.
Thank you, Jeanette!
Hello, Bobbie,
Tbank you for your generous comments. I fear you are right: too many of us can relate to words such as these.