A poem: The Doctor’s Office

I sit grey and cold, years soaked beyond a black and white photograph of tight skin, dark hair on a straight and ridged frame waiting my turn in an ocean of Muzak. Days in mass, wasted in a wheeled chair waiting for a push from a stranger, angels who cycle in and out of rotation. They punch a clock, paid to care, I watch the clock in despair as the numbers change and seconds countdown with each heave of strained breath. I tell them it is time, time to give-up my place in this line, but they never listen. Just roll me into the sun light I suggest and let me feel the warmth on my bones one last time. Let me watch the day fade behind a cloud as I close my eyes and disappear when the moon rises. The conclusion is drawn, the decision was made long before I got to this precious moment. Ends approach us all at varying rates of speed, we rent this continuum of space rather purchase. But I am tired of writing the check, not getting my money’s worth or the senior discount. The lease payments are simply too expensive. Prolonging the inevitable is an answer for some, a worthy few whose contributions have yet to be realized, but not me, not for me. I am spent, lived well beyond my savings with no assets of energy, desire, ideas or hope of what’s to come. The future holds no great discoveries. What happens here, on this planet, beyond my final day will remain a mystery that I can survive without knowing. There is a new adventure ahead, an anonymous though well documented next chapter that is either a truth or a fairy-tale. A Kingdom high, or a dark empty space of silence. Faith brought me to this point, I will allow faith to complete its journey and celebrate with ancient faces or wear a mask of death for eternity. Let me go and explore those last lessons on my own.

An original composition by the author of Ends and Beginnings

About ends and beginnings blog

I am a frustrated writer and poet waiting to be discovered. A stand-up philosopher performing on a street corner near you. A Christian with questions but I don’t want to hear your answers. A Buddhist with a bumper sticker on my truck to prove it. A collector of quotes. A grower of lettuce. The Patron Saint of earthworms who name their children after me. A cyclist whose big ass strains the seams of his Lycra bibs. I am American by birth, Southern by the grace of God. My goal in life is to leave an imprint on the lives of the people I love not a footprint on the earth. I am a son, a husband, a father composed of 65%-Oxygen, 18%-Carbon, 10%-Hydrogen, 3%-Nitrogen, 3%-Diet Coke and 1%-Oreo.
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6 Responses to A poem: The Doctor’s Office

  1. Rather ominous, my friend. Everything OK?

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Patty says:

    Again, marvelous .

    Liked by 1 person

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