The Doctor’s Waiting Room

Outside, a train somewhere hammering its tracks,
as he looks back
on your Mickey Mouse socks
and list of men who left in the rain
without flushing the toilet; sees himself across a room
full of cheap polyester suits.
That small conformist waiting to be born.
And after the honeymoon

one day waking up
in a country ruled by you.
Your road-rage face,
strategic tears and apologies always,
like artificial Los Angeles snow.
Him late, breathless and red-faced as ever.
You taking the world warmly by the throat.
All the way

to a day such as this
- the buses coming and going,
the post unopened on the mat -
and him left remembering them well
by that waiting room wall: all the Au Pairs
and neighbours’ wives
he might’ve absconded with
but didn’t; as he waits

for the man to say
more this time than a simple: “take two
three times daily” or “apply
the ointment to the infected area
and rub in gently.”