Issue 66, Summer 1976
To a Doctor Who Would Not See Me
I passed your office six times today
wanting to turn up the broken walk
and slip inside to wait at the coat rack,
hoping your nurse would say: well
as long as you are here I suppose—
But I only looked in, recalling
your leather table and knives, feeling
the lump on my arm, rubbing it
hard to make it go away.
You will find this note when you come
outside and will check the back seat
and floor for me and drive off
in the dark, your mind racing, your wife
alone at home, miles away.
Picture me now, my breath hot
on your kitchen window, my eyes
sweeping over her like a tongue.