The Doctor Asks How I’ve Been
Almost like an old friend,
while signaling for me to sit anywhere.
The chocolate suede arms beckon me,
with its’ sunken seat and dim lighting
whispering, “sit here, let me hold you.”
I assume it’s some kind of test,
a trick question, so I choose the ridged,
wooden chair too close the hers.
She smiles professionally and places
the Kleenex between us.
She’s only here to listen.
My three dollar co-pay
doesn’t cover human contact
or affection. She asks how often I cry.
I tell her only when I have to talk to people.
She asks about work, my husband and
(after checking her notes) poetry.
I explain those things mean having to talk to people,
she misses the punch line.
When she asks if I self-isolate I wonder
how much she hears between lines
of illegible scribble. She calls me by my legal name
and invites me back
as if I’m coming for tea
instead of a quiet room to cry.
I tell her I’ll see her in a week.
By Katie Rendon Kahn
Katie Rendon Kahn lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida, where she chases adventure and poetry prompts with her children. Kahn and her 11 year old daughter turned a poem about places they wanted to see into a children’s book series called “World Adventures. But that hasn’t stopped her from continuing to write about the grown up stuff.