Poem By Randy McClave
I walk into the room and it is cold
Or, is it just me because I am getting old,
The room is large, but the patients are sparse
I guess it will be a waiting room farce.
I am now shaking, am I nervous, or am I scared
Can I be fixed or even repaired?
The thought of illness or a disease enters my brain
And I have not yet signed in with my name.
I now sign in and the nurse says that I will be next
Now that answer gives me a worse complex,
I must be prepared for my doctors third degree
But, first in a cup the nurse will ask me to pee.
So, I sit and I grab a magazine that I pretend to read
And then to God secretly I decided to plead,
I ask him to watch over me and please don't let me be ill
Please! Let me be fixed by a shot, or by a simple pill.
The nurse calls out my name, it is now my turn
Now the doctor will see me for my concern,
But, first I am weighed and my height is measured
Only part of my visit that I am smiling and I feel treasured.
The nurse then leads me into an examination room
I sit on a paper covered table waiting for my doom,
The nurse checks my vitals and asks me questions, once again
When she leaves she informs me, that the doctor soon would be in.
I am now worried and bothered I am a nervous wreck
I now begin to feel a sharp pain in my neck,
As I sit and I wait I watch my life passing before my eyes
How I wish that I felt better, and also wished that I had exercise.
Now I know that I will hear bad news from the physician
I now think that the next doctor that examines me will be a mortician,
Now in worries and in perspiration I am engulfed, as I am sitting
As I worry about my habits, the doctor says that I should be quitting.
Randy L. McClave