Praise Everything

Melissa deSa, Stony Brook University School of Medicine

Espresso shots splatter on a broken clock, my keys jangle at the door
Running to avoid his greeting that's never given
Afraid of a face encountered twice, a smile breaking terror
I drive past school into that village field transformed
Blacktop and Lexus-Infiniti-BMW lights' shining on Harold's
Been hawking aged cheeses, toy cakes, and vegetables for years
Seconds to run by the strips of medicinal pit stops, handshaking you with signs
"Get your teeth cleaned, your colon scoped, your knees realigned, your signs formed"
My MD awaits in the doorway of office #45, his head's shadows splayed against
Superman lunchboxes patterned atop a bookstand
His stethoscope between PDR and diploma on eye-level shelf

I walk into room #1, hands dewing with uncertainty
Fumbling to click Zyrtec's pen, which feels at last to be crumbling into bits and pieces
Cheating the system? Priming the pump? Read on-line last night to say "No Free Lunch"
Away in clerk mode scribbling initials sex CC HPI
Swing my scope and cuff dangling on the wall, waiting to hear and quantify his chronic problem
Unsolved uncertain dangerous ambiguity
Never seen but spoken and tossed like numeric darts against his chart
A safe return to our white-coated arms promised each quarter
Love scurried across a pad, packaged in overpriced FDA approved colorful remakes
He knows better and pulls from his pocket an over-folded clipping
"rhabdomyolysis" ablaze in a yellow square
Truth of this and rising LFTs begins to squeeze drops against my brow
It's true, "but rare," and now the swiping of forehead begins
"He'll recommend something else, niacin perhaps?"

Another unknown awaits me in room #3 where he smacks with understanding
My youth unhidden, not covered but rather matched, fitting too well with the white
Brazenly speaking of snow against a mountain yet to be climbed
His red arms with graying hairs keep opening and closing against his chest
"yes" and "no" and "did you check my heart real good" are all he offers
As if to say "don't care" and "don't trust you" and "you're wasting my time"
But my sinking head rises when the doc calls back
The drawers drop and the card with plastic holes is routinely marked on the table
Spots of our vulnerability looking ugly and sad and alone
Our bondage, our secret, my gaze averted against the door

Drive home to the patterned blocks where steps again his shadows
Greeting unsaid rejected feared loathed departed
Until I slip into dinner table comfort, my elbows against the cloth
Fingers dripping in makhnai spiced seas of onions cashews yogurt rice
I look up and see creeping past the windowsill a stretched white shirt
Midsection filled with his wife's lasagna and the remains of collegiate beer runs in '45
An unseen expression as he stoops to wheel out the grill his son got him last spring
And I begin to wonder, mentally dart and pull down the shades, until I remember that
Everyone is worthy of praise