I hate to wait in doctor waiting rooms.
I seldom meet a doctor I respect.
The act of even calling one consumes
my inner peace with angst, attacks and wrecks
my calm, converts me to a phobic mess
and makes me stupid. I disdain all drugs
produced by pharma. Yet I must confess
I’m aging now, beset by wear and bugs.

The fact is, Doctor R’s that one in ten
who brings perspective to the room. He knows
life is a series of goodbyes. “No joke,”
he says, his eyes and hands on me again.
“The damage has been done. The problem grows.
The time has come to stop inhaling smoke.”