My father is writing a letter,
But to whom he will not show me.
He perches it atop his knee as he scrawls left-handedly pausing

At times to think about his next sentence or to shield the Card.
“I’ve noticed a lot more Hispanics in this area,” said a man.
A snort. “There goes the neighborhood.” His wife.
Lives of others,
The utmost concern of this couple
While their own falls to shambles.
For why else would they be here?
These chairs are rather stiff
And a dusty radio whispers John Mellencamp (God Bless America!) and the accident report preceded.
Worcester traffic,
It makes me sick.

I come every month,
Read the magazines,
Use the bathroom,
Sit in the chairs.
Yet why is it all still so unsettling?
I want to run from this place before the next saccharine injected song plays.
Before the couple sitting at the other end of the room makes another racist remark with their forked tongues.
And pollute the hazy afternoon air with their problems that are so naked
And just recently prescribed.
I want to waltz on out that door,
Past that ‘infested’ neighborhood
And weave through that tangle of cars that I so readily complain about.
Alas, the doctor is ready to see me now.