'I'll bet he's Chinese.'
you said smugly,
as we sat
like a pair of timid bookends
on the stiff chairs
of Outpatients.

Wrong.

He was tall -
and older than we expected
(he looked older than you, my love)
with a painful sort of uprightness -
arthritis perhaps?

He offered his hand.
He had musician's fingers.
'Rosenfeldt's my name.
I'm not your real surgeon
A 'stand-in' I suppose you'd call me.'

He looked faintly ill at ease
as if trekking in unfamiliar territory,
yet he gave us both
a cautious sort of confidence
borne, I suspect,
of years
of cardio-thoracic experience.

His voice was hesitant,
but his hands were sure
as he checked your pulses
and listened
intently
to your chest.

The ancient sphygmomanometer
had a tired face.

It seemed a long time
before he said:
'Blood pressure's up a bit.
Probably white coat syndrome, eh? '

Then he unscrewed the cap
of a fountain pen.
and carefully
and thoughtfully
recorded his diagnosis.

'You're going to need an operation, I'm afraid.
Any questions? '



To be continued....

Alison Cassidy

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jerry-s-journey-professor-rosenfeldt/