his birdlike eyes darting up and down my tense frame
one liver-spotted hand reaches out to locate my spastic pulse,
the other gently, ever so gently, cups the end of a stethescope to my heart
We sit silently as Roman statues in the cold sterile room
I examine the whisps of hair on his head and his small feet on the floor
Our breaths fall in line unconsiously, starchy and slow
we hold our intimate pose, as if we have been here a million times before
He leans backs gradually, his paw darts back in to his creased white pocket
I look into his soulful eyes and see the judgement of a thousand suns
He has seen this story before--knows it will always come to a pained grin
then he will say he cannot fix what is wrong with me
2 comments:
Excellent descriptions creating a clear setting and mood. The end expresses pain in futility in not knowing one's condition. Well done!
That last line wrenches.
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