When I was in sixth grade
My mother made a phone call
Because I might be screwed in the head
When I was in the doctor’s office
My eyes were glued on the rug
That intricate, red rug
With so many different designs
I stared at it for an hour
The adults just talked
Talked about my brother
My grades that hid my intelligence
My bouts of crying
The worries that no one else had
The pictures drawn on homework
I just looked at the rug
I saw an angel, a deer’s head
Mountains, rivers full of fish
An eagle, a house, a cloud
A man in a turban
When the hour was up
The doctor asked how many teachers I had
I said I only took one, for allergies
My absent mind
Mixing up such unrelated things
As drugs and education
Confirmed the diagnosis
My mom gave me these pills
Like the ones for the worries
They would get me good grades
I would be like everyone else
So I took the medicine
And made straight A’s for the first time
Three weeks later
I returned to the doctor
Sitting upright on his couch
No more awkward crouch
Clear eye contact
I glanced down at the rug
But couldn’t see anything
Nothing but a rug
Had I become mature?