Doctors Waiting Room Poem by Alan Bruce Thompson

We sit across from each other and wonder what is wrong,
All patients together, but hardly a happy throng.

With plasters and crutches it’s obvious what the affliction is,
And some ailments are without doubt more hers than his.

But most are dressed normal it’s just the shifting eye,
That ensures us that they suffer, even close to cry.

The brave swallow their hurt, do not show there is pain,
They want the business over, be outside again.

The hypochondriac comes by each day at two,
This regular costumer expects to be treated before you.

He is welcome to come here everyday,
I just want to be declared healthy and be on my way.