The Nurse’s Office
Paul Hostovsky
I like it here. I don't feel sick
but I don't feel good exactly either.
I like it when you ask me questions
about how I feel and since when.
I don't know how to answer them
exactly. It hurts here, and here. It feels
good to be touched and puzzled over.
I think if anyone can solve the puzzle
you can. I like your stethoscope
on my skin. And your eyebrows
coming together over my underlying
condition. I like your new thermometer
in my ear, but I liked the old one better
under my tongue, with its promise
of you returning in 3 minutes to read it.
Now I sit here in this chair with my
symptoms while you write at your desk
all the way over there. Out in the hall
it's quiet. The only sound's the sweep
of the long broom--Tony our custodian
pushing his way up the infinitely tessellating
checkered floor with his jutting elbows and rose
tatoo climbing. The coast is clear. I'll see you
tomorrow, I say, and slip back out
into Infinity before you look up.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.