A Small Interlude Between Writing

Popular Mozart melodies are playing on a low loop. Five people tense as a clinic nurse calls us in or leaves us hanging. I know the drill, she’ll lead me reluctantly to the scales, the usual sighs of ritual humiliation; “Are you 6 foot” she inquires looking at the chart skeptically. I don’t tell her that for the last 10 years I have been shrinking while my bull neck sinks lower, torpedoed by a laptop navy. In the Doctors examination room I slump worry and hum. I know I will be there for a while, long enough for me to scribble this poem down in a dollar store notepad. Back home I will spell-check every other word - my mind was on a lump in my gullet. After much examination the doctor declared that I have a bone in my throat one unknown to medical science; at first she thought it might be a chicken bone but it waggles only when I talk and spins when I write. Apparently there are strings attached to it, something is pulling at that little bone. When x-rayed it dances a jig as if to entertain. I’m still waiting for a second opinion though I must admit I am enjoying being the unidentified voice of my muses little pinky bone.