The Boy
Little and blond, he plays games
on his mother’s cell phone.
He has learned to ignore
her anger here as in countless other
doctors’ offices. She demands
pills for her pain: oxycodone
for the bruises, lorazepam for anxiety.
I decline, and she declines
my alternatives. Her pretty face
projects poison. I concentrate
on not flinching, not backing down,
trying to appear stoic and concerned
at the same time, clutching
at the compassion that led me here.
Oblivious to the drama,
his attention firmly somewhere else,
the boy’s fingers fly.
Published in Annals of Internal Medicine, Volume 171, Number 8, Oct 15, 2019
Lynette Lamp 