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.






Unauthorized Copying Is Prohibited. Ask the author first.
Copyright 2012 ruthless48
Published on Tuesday, March 6, 2012.     Filed under: "Fiction" and "Short Story"

Author's Note:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozEmcZeUEFk
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