Waiting Room

By Joseph Hesch

Each new one shuffles in, poking a

silver-fringed or bald head inside the glass

to murmur or cough a reply to

“Any changes in insurance, dear?”

Around the room, rheumy eyes lift

and drop again, while the latest visitor scans

for an open seat, with no one on either side,

because you can’t be too safe these days.

This room is full of folks poring over

publications they normally wouldn’t pick up

to swat a wasp.  But there’s not much else to do

except sit and fret about their ailments

or to fume over the fact

their appointment was scheduled

for a half-hour ago.

Perhaps they could look around,

trying to determine what one another's

troubles might be.  But it would take

a mighty diagnostician to ascertain their problems

when all one can see are the tops of

forward-leaning heads, and all one can listen to are

quiet coughs or the buzz of even quieter conversation.

Me?  I don’t want to know why they’re here.

I'm waiting for the Over-50 exam, which is

to medicine what the Early Bird Special is to dining.

Besides, I’ve got my own problems.

According to this magazine’s menu of maladies,

I’ll be having a delicious, malicious, pernicious anemia

…with a side order of andropause.