A health complaint
drove me to the doctor,
who said I looked like a regular shopper,
but I swore – I was just a visitor.
Which pills do you prefer?
he asked with great assumption.
I couldn’t care less, I said
as long as they’re for human consumption.
With the rise of his eyebrows
and a wry smile,
he made me feel like a child,
but who was I to tell him otherwise?
He scribbled on pen and paper,
no better than a toddler,
understood only by those who guard pharmaceuticals
and look down upon the customer.
I handed in my prescription,
to a teller dressed up as a nurse,
though all she could really do,
was telly up the bill.
I waited and waited,
from one waiting room to the next.
I am sick and they sadistically leave me here,
to be patient?
By the time I reach my wits end,
the teller tells me it’s ready,
though she keeps her distance,
she doesn’t know what I have to give.
‘The goods’ are slipped into a plain brown paper bag,
they protect their reputation,
by respecting my privacy,
after all, they don’t know where I’m coming from.
I follow the instructions,
and take my medicine.
No better with it,
no better without it.