Demons loiter in the lobby
Slouching smug and silent
They munch on stale pretzels
Watching whatever’s on Channel Five

The Greasy One with cheap gold around his neck
Uses his tongue as a toothpick
He nods and taps his watch for my benefit
Sneaking a peak at his paper ticket

Two of them play Scrabble by the Frigidaire
Arguing about whether coward is a word
Greasy calls them Goon One and Goon Two
His fingers snap and One gives him a mint

I’ve kept them waiting longer than I know
In the dreary foyer of my mind
But with leashed tongue I just stare at the floor
And wonder if their number will come up

For they are not sick but Disease itself
Feckless thugs in the corridors of my mind
To eject them demands a courage I lack
So they linger and drink the sour coffee

So skilled am I in treating the ill
In other doctors’ waiting rooms
But my own patients have hunkered down
And become my unlikely houseguests.