Donnie And The Zombie I Poem by Morgan Michaels

That morning when he came in Donnie spied the zombie sitting in the wait-room beside the water-cooler. It was reading an old number of Vogue. Donnie thought this odd, not expecting that zombies cared that much about fashion.

'This is a different sort of zombie, indeed', thought Donnie.

The waiting room was empty, except for the Zombie. The Zombie's long legs stuck straight out. They would have tripped anyone passing, so perhaps it was for the best that the room was otherwise empty.

He considered the list of specialty clinics for the day: zombies lacking hearts, he doubted its interest was cardiologic. Because they may go a long time without breathing, he doubted it came for Pulmonary. Because their enteric tracts were relatively simple, he'd heard, GI seemed unlikely. Donnie was puzzled. That only left Physical Therapy. The Zombie, he concluded, was there to see him and him alone.

Still puzzled, he opened the door to his office, but stopped at the desk where the MA's were having coffee.

'He's here to see you'! whispered Maria, his translator, 'Seriously', she mugged.

'You're kidding', said Donnie, eyeing the zombie through the glass.

'No', said Adalgisia, gravely, nibbling a Danish. 'Just you'.

The zombie's coat was rain-streaked but not soaked.

The next moment found Donnie was at his desk. Slipping into his lab-coat, which always seemed too small, he turned on the lap-top, thinking to check his email. But Adalgisia knocked at the door and handed him a thin, newly made chart.

'Ready'? she asked.

'Sure', he nodded and she left.

'Days have a way of getting started', he sighed, shooting the cursor to the record icon, 'whether we like it or not'.

Page one of the patient profile flashed onto the screen.

'Next', called Donnie, even though the Zombie was the first patient to be seen.

Slowly, the door creaked open after only a minute. The door had never creaked so, he told himself.