Bronchitis, otra vez.

I wouldn't have been there
ten minutes early
if I'd known they'd keep me
waiting for half an hour
after the scheduled time.
I wouldn't've been there
at all if she hadn't
pulled rank, her profession and all.
Us stubborn fitters
sweat, bleed, or drink
the ailment right out of us.
It's no wonder we're sick
for weeks at a time.

But there I was, and I'd
already finished my book.
Even some forms to fill out
in the interim would've been welcomed.
It wasn't in the cards, though;
I shuffled my feet
and tried not to cough too frequently
as the waiting room continued to fill up
with the same people who always
end up in front of me
cashing in two-dollar lottery tickets
at the gas station
and playing their unlucky numbers.

"Mr. Schuler?" a tired nurse asked
through a suddenly gaping door.
The wrinkled mass across from my
still shuffling sneakers rose
with his wife to answer the call.
The two of them looked like
they'd forgotten why'd they'd shown up
in the first place as they awkwardly made
their way towards the door, the cracking of
calcified joints practically audible
in the air-conditioned silence. The doctors there
specialized in pulmonary care
which made many of their patients
very old; I wasn't sure what I was doing there
but the Schulers seemed even more confused.

"Mr. Schuler, would you like your wife
to join you?" the receptionist asked from behind
the obviously non-bulletproof glass.
Some law made that question mandatory, but
the Schulers hadn't voted on it
so they didn't bother answering.

The nurse looked at the secretary in silent defeat.
Their frowns seemed to say
what the soles of my wasted running shoes were mumbling:
At least Mr. Schuler won't die alone.

That's more than some of us can say.