Doctor's Visit Poem by Frank Avon

The examining room
is sterile
is cheerless
without a speck of dust
(without a ray of hope) .
You wait
incarcerated.

They take your name, your date of birth.
They take x-rays (digitized, they say) .
They take your blood pressure, your pulse.
They take your statement
(keep it terse, keep it curt) .
They take your pants
(here, wear these paper shorts
that keeping slipping off) .
They take your personhood away.

You wait.

And wait.

(Another thirty minutes,
Dr. Valium has to go to surgery.)

You wait.

And wait.

Over an hour you wait.
I need to call my wife
(We have no public phone;
no, no phone you can use.)
Can I put on my pants
and run downstairs
and tell my wife what's going on.
(No. You might lose your appointment
if the doctor comes while you are gone.)

You wait.

You try to read a book,
a Sports Illustrated.
You nod off
in this straight, straight chair.
The bright light that bathes you
(in your paper shorts)
blinks off. You have not moved.
The spotless room is shadowed.
The only light, the only window,
in a large computer screen
on the wall at your elbow,
its myriad icons don't flash;
they never change or blink;
they are as impersonal as
the steel sink, the steel implements,
the white walls, the examining table,
the plasticized pine floors.

Two and a half hours, you wait.
And wait.
You are pointed to the rest room.
The pot won't flush.
Its all-seeing eye,
its little red light,
doesn't see you.
You've vanished from its sight.
Or, worse, been banished.

The surgeon hurries in.
(The surgery was perfect.
You have no problem with your surgery.)
But, doctor, if you hurt the way I....
(It must be your lower back, a disc,
or your circulatory system.
I'll order another X-ray,
another set of tests.
I'll be back in a few moments.)

And he's gone.
Doesn't come back.
Never does, though he always says
(I'll be back in a few moments.)

I'm dismissed from the spotless room.
From my paper shorts.
From the bright, bright light
that knows when to click itself off.
(Go to the front desk.
They will make your appointments for the tests.)

They take your height.
They take your weight.
They ask you about pace-makers
or anything metallic you wear within.
They take your telephone number.
Your address.
(Your venue.)
They take your name,
who you are.

That's all.
You can go now.
No, we have no public telephone.

And all the while, outside,
it's been raining and raining,
thundering, windy.
You never knew.
It didn't matter.
It doesn't matter.
(You are not you.)

Me.