My heart specialist has his office on the fourth floor of a building without a lift,
my appointment was at five.
Began climbing the 175 steps up to his surgery three o’clock,
on my crawl I saw that the specialist and the florist, on the first floor,
had the same surname.
On landings plastic wrapped bouquets of flowers with cards stuck to them
(we’ll remember you and in loving memory)
some posies were fresh others had been there for a while.
‘How long did it take you to walk up?’ the specialist asked
while chain-smoking small black cigars.
‘One hour and fifty minutes, could have been quicker
but stopped to admire the flowers.’
‘Yes, my sister is the florist, here have a cigar’
‘No thanks, never smoke on an empty stomach.’
‘Commendable.’
The door to the surgery opened
it was the porter, smelling of beer, broom cupboards
and dirty deeds done for the other occupants of this building,
reporting that the doc just had lost two more patients,
one the second landing and one on the third,
the doc sighed called his brother who owns the funeral agency in the basement.
‘Two more clients for you Carlos on second and third,
but be quick it’s no good for my reputation having bodies lying around everywhere.’
The specialist sighed, combed his hair,
lit another cigar and looked out of the window, it was raining.
I coughed to attract attention
‘What about me am I ok?’
What! Are you still here?
Sure you are ok,
made it up to my surgery didn’t you?’