Waiting At The Doctor's

Waiting At The Doctor’s

Seven already in the queue, though we got there early

Gathered in the darkness and the early evening fog

Forced to stand upon the pathway flags and stamp our feet

Muffled up in jumpers, gloves and coat, scarf and hat

My barking cough and wheezing chest

Not helped by the dampness in the air

There’s a lot of it about at the minute

Says one local busybody

Winter’s already setting in, going to be a hard one

Offers another weather-watcher

Everyone hoping that the Witch will open early

And take a little pity on us poor souls locked outside

But it’s bang on six o’clock when the bolt at last slides back

And the key is finally turned within the hefty lock

The feeble outside light grudgingly illuminated

As if we’re all there under sufferance

Before we trundle inside, grateful for the meagre warmth

To see the fire’s only just been lit

And smoulders fitfully in the grate

Struggling to gain some purchase

On the paltry lumps of coal

Then forced to queue again before the desk

To let the Witch write down our names and ages

So the doctor will see us all in order

Before sitting down on hardened chairs and benches

No concessions to comfort

In the stuffy, gloomy room of illnesses

Cheerless and charmless

The naked lightbulb adding to the misery

To wait the doctor’s eventual arrival

Among the coughing and the sneezing

Then the late arrivals edging through the door

Their eyebrows shooting up in mock surprise

At the over-crowded waiting room

Then turned away until tomorrow

Because the list’s already full

Followed out by the smirks of those who will be seen tonight

Then the doctor quickly sweeping in, his coat undone

His bag loose-handled, trailing in his wake

A worried frown upon his face

Hurried past the patients, into his consulting room

The door briefly closed for him to catch his breath

The Witch gathering up the patients’ files

And, privileged, squeezing herself inside

For the briefest conversation

Before the first name is shouted out

And the patient shambles forward

Leaving the rest of us to speculate upon his likely ailment

Then to shuffle up one place

And to keep an eye upon the others

To check that no-one gets to jump the queue

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016