A Family History Vi Poem by Morgan Michaels

Closing the chart, Donnie made it clear the session was through.

'So, please come back when you get the x-ray', he advised.

'Ok', he said, hastily, almost in relief, and rose to go.

Donnie looked at his friend and explained.

'He's coming back when he gets the x-ray. Everything depends on that'.

She shifted uncomfortably against the wall.

'Ok', she agreed, 'we'll come back. 'But, doc...'

'Yeh'?

'Aren't you gonna give him something for pain'?

'Like what'?

'Ah, well, maybe some Tramadol'?

If it is possible to be surprised and not surprised, Donnie was that.

'Has he been taking it'?

'Uh-huh'.

'Who gave it to him'?

'His first doc'.

Finally, everything clear.

'That's an opiate', he replied. 'No, even if I wanted to (which I don't) these things are tracked. By the state'.

'Why not? He's hurtin' bad'.

It was a sort of show down, but the fire was guilt, not hot lead.

'Not me', thought Donnie. 'No way'.

He said nothing, and the seconds ticked by.

With each passing moment she realized her chances of getting what she wanted became exponentially less. Finally, they left, mumbling 'thanks' in going.

But, she turned in the open doorway.

'Are you sure? The pain.....'

Donnie looked at his watch.

'Ibuprofen', he called, as she left, back into the neighborhood.