The clinics are chalked on the board so we wait,
each choosing a chair on its own, as though illness
could jump in our hair like lice.
A man assists his father with a zimmer,
impatient with the old man’s thin questions.
He handles him roughly into a seat, neatens
the lay of his legs, his hair.
No sooner are they settled when a nurse calls,
All for Dr Patel follow me.
And we do, a whole line of us not doing the conga.
Other patients tuck their legs beneath,
make way for us and our hopes for a miracle.