Housecall
By ruthless48
It was a wordless diagnosis.
The flashing glint of the stethoscope,
the blurring
of the vertical and horizontal,
as it
took effect, the pain medicine.
Cupped to my mouth by
his hand, as large as my face
but never touching my lips.
A straight ahead, past my eyes, aquamarine gaze streamed.
I had broken my own promise, never to trust blue eyes again.
The black leather coat still dotted with raindrops had
ushered
sleepy children to the back seat of his RV.
Then it was
my turn, wrapped in a thermal, pale as my face.
Maná
sang as the wipers slapped time with the radio.
"Deme algo
me doctor, me está mantando esta depresión.
Estoy demente,
por su amor, me está matando la obsesión."
We swirled
in the rain as my head and stomach spun.
His gaze straight,
solemn, funerary.
I was caught in sleep again.
I
woke later when the tumblers turned in the door.
A bird
sang outside.
A car drove by.
He walked in like a single
musical note,
leather coat draped over his left arm.
I
watched through my haze - the strong weich shoulders
still under the operating room white dress shirt.
I remember
their firm yielding on the ride to this place,
wanting to
melt into the integrity, safe and wordless
but the medication
pulled me as it did before,
now to sleep.
I struggled
to focus. He loosened his tie.
Managing a voice,
I asked,
"Where were you?"
The gaze met mine
for the first time,
pity not desire.
The shirt
dropped to a chair with the coat
as he sat on another bed
opposite mine,
his back to me.
"I am a doctor."
Sleep spun around to collect me,
his shoulders faded
into the room.
Sleep like a yellow cab, and I was gone
fare paid, dreaming again.