It appears I’ve reached the semi-advanced age
where I see Doctor X, Y or Z
more often than a few years ago we’d engage.
After most of these visits they now send me off
with a prescription order for some test
or other about which I used to scoff.
Now it’s vein-skewering needle jabs
to check levels in my blood of this or that
when it got tested and sent back from the labs.
I pose now for X-rays and scans in the dark to check
if my hips and spine too will crumble
like sidewalk chalk I have in the bones of my neck.
I’ve had every-five-years visits to my posterior
where they’d periscope to see if I’ve grown
a garden of tumors in its sunless interior
All of these tests have given me twinges,
I’ll admit, but I took most in good humor
even the ones with three-inch syringes.
Recent reports showed osteo-something, glauco-the-other,
and a maybe the next will connect me
to one of the things that took my Father or Mother.
So now waiting for these reports to give me the news
has become the uncomfortable part,(calm down, old heart)
of my too-often doctor visits, win or lose.
For Day #14 of the Poem-A-Day Challenge during National Poetry Month, we were asked to write a “report” poem. I dunno, this is what came to my old and enfeebled mind.