Why I Sit Beside the Door

I wait
and think of what I’ll say
in quartered years –a slice of day
with fifteen minutes of his ear
to talk about my joy and fear.
I wait
I wait for him – I try
to gather thoughts of what or why
I’ve come – and yet my thoughts are thin,
yet here I am – I wait for him.

I wait, I wait , I wait
for him –
I sit beside the entrance door
and place my purse down on the floor,
glance at the mantle to my right –
stocked full with pamphlets - gleaming white.

And in a ‘half-moon’ little while
he lights the room up with his smile
and clean, pressed shirt – I love that style!
A hint of ocean blues, his eyes
are full of mystery and surprise.

With seeming care he calls my name,
then I remember why I came.
I came, I came to talk to him
about the issues – bright or grim
and yes, about the medicine
I need. At least he knows my name
and never makes me feel insane.

My eyes meet his – it’s my turn now
to sit, to talk, to cry, to smile,
to do whatever I must do –
before my time with him is through.

Anne – February 23, 2010