At the Eye Doctor: the Receptionist

The receptionist was nice,
meth-thin, a woman, who just stepped
out of a Dorothea Lange photograph
and took the first job
that would take her
who spoke loudly and slowly
as though speaking to
a not-so-bright child
with a serious hearing-impairment

and called me darling this
and honey that
and could I verify my birth date
for her which sounded very much
like “pretty please”

and I said, yes, I could do that
and told her I was a libra,
you know, the scales,
and I think it was a Tuesday
but it was a very long time ago
so I can’t be sure

And she said, Honey, we don’t
weigh you here. All I need is
the day and month and year when
you was borned
not the day of the week.

I considered cupping
hand to ear
and making her say it
all over again but louder

but gave her what she needed
as she patiently guided
me through the intricacies
of signing my initials with my finger
on the digital release forms
as she cooed at my success

and took me all the way back
through seventy-two years
of memories, when I
wrote my name in print
and got a gold star
for getting it right

and how reading saved me
when my mother
was already falling into
schizophrenia

and came out of it
just as the receptionist said
we’re done here, honey,
so I got up and leaned
on my cane and sat
In the chair she pointed to

Which just happened
To be right in the corner
Where the misfits were
Always directed to sit—
Meaning me—
But at least it wasn’t
Facing the wall.

And once again
I was a 78 year old child
Feeling right at home
And the receptionist
Was talking to another client
But was speaking so softly
I couldn’t hear a word
She was saying.