the doctor's waiting room

out of a few

words

overheard at the doctor's office,

i construct

an entire novel

of suspense and mystery

from the whispering

small talk.

it all starts

with a red rash,

a rough patch of skin, 

a wound

that won't stop

bleeding

on the man's leg

beside me.

his pant leg is rolled up

as he jibber jabbers

with his bored wife,

who sits

there knitting.

i suspect poison ivy,

or oak,

or a bee sting,

but why stop there.

maybe he's a spy and he's

been

touched by poison, a Russian

toxic powder

of some sort.

the fate of the world

may depend

upon how this turns out.

this man

may be the key to

saving democracy as we know

it to be,

and then

the nurse calls my name,

it's my

turn

for the dermatologist

to examine my

scalp.

i remove my hat,

the tale will have to wait.