A Family History Iii Poem by Morgan Michaels

His primary'.

'He has a primary'?

It didn't seem right- him having a primary. The poor primary deserved better.

But she quickly made things clear.

'No, it's you. We switched. To here. To you'.

'Claro'.

He felt better- and a little flattered.

He looked at the fellow hard, for the first time. He wore a grey cotton sweat shirt and pants. His head was hooded, his expression flat. It was like he was scripted for silence. Donnie saw the futility of asking why he didn't follow up with the x-ray. Unwilling or unable to reason, he sat sullen, slouched in the seat looking small. Didn't he speak English? No problem. Many of the patients spoke only Spanish and many were pleased to learn no English at all. He was used to working through a translator. Sugar was hardly less easy to deal with in Spanish than English.

But he was shifty-eyed. His features poked luridly from his hood. He weighed a mere 145 lbs., it said, and he looked tired. But he was at that fleeting moment when men are most attractive, and Donnie felt bad. How easy it was to waste a life. His chin dug into his chest. Under its Death's head his sweat shirt read 'Bronx'. There were numbers tattooed in series along the side of his neck.

In his most avuncular way, Donnie said,

'Young man, come here'.

To his relief, the fellow rose.

'Do you have any other medical problems'?

'Just diabetes', he coughed.

'Can you describe....