the examination

like an old horse
you stand
unsaddled, unbridled,
legs
bent, rising from
the tiled floor.
a steel light overhead.
the doctor, a she,
stands back, a measured
distance,
glasses perched
solidly on an educated
nose.
turn around, she says.
look up.
look down. her hand
reaches for your chin,
two fingers pressing
you to move left,
then right.
she pulls on an arm,
then listens to the cave
of your heart,
your pickled lungs,
both front
and back.
open your mouth, she
says.
stick out your tongue.
what hurts,
she finally asks. why
are you here.
what's taken you so long
to realize
you're no longer
young?