Speechless At the Walk-In Clinic

Orange hair, toenails freak red,
she wanders, barefoot and blouse loose,
into the neighborhood walk-in clinic.

Her friend follows, shoes dangling
from outstretched fingertips like
two squirming kittens she intends
to toss in the drink.

A child screams, curses her mother
in Spanish, rolls on the floor.
The sardined crowd seems singularly
unimpressed by this hellion child's
blossoming vocabulary.

Baseball cap turned round on his head,
another one slinks through the door, signs
the sheet, binds Walkman to ears, snaps
fingers to jive, slaps feet on the floor.

Everyone is coughing, coughing,
coughing and no rear-end has left
its chair yet since I got here.

Ahhhh. there goes one....
The blonde at the end, coffee stains
down her blouse, papers tucked
in back pocket of falling down jeans.

Everyone keeps coughing, coughing
til it drives me insane.

Now my turn. I unfold my notes,
so carefully typed, explaining me, my ear.
and my voiceless plight, hand treatise to nurse.

'Hello Mr Roberts,' the doc calls out
as he strolls through the door,
carrying the wrong chart..
I wonder if my last hair
trim was a bit much, after all.

I try to explain. No sound will come out
and the nurse has disappeared over the
Great China Wall with my hard-written notes.

He treats me for hemorrhoids, instead
of the throat. Quite embarrassing,
but what can I do? Home now, my voice is
still gone, but sit--well I try.

The moral of this story, you're asking yourself?
There is none, but if you insist....
should ever you be voiceless and to a clinic
must go, write notes in triplicate, duct tape
your bum, and carry a big stick
firmly tucked under one arm.

Pris Campbell
©2004

Art: (to be added)

Return to Poetry Index II
Return to Homepage