Most often I spot them way off in the distance,

something in the gait and the weight of their symptoms;

the ill-defined tremor of repeat prescriptions

sets alarm bells ringing and I turn on a sixpence

or cross roads inventing a previous engagement,

catch a flower arrangement, bend to tie laces,

bury my head in shop windows replete

with cheap trinkets. I tread light on my feet 

but occasional spirits make cock-crow visits

or a patch of ice remains untouched by thaw,

throwing me off balance; I clutch at displacement

when meeting  ex-patients once more.

 

That's when my elbow shudders at the finger

as "Hello stranger" wraps around my shoulder;

I spin to a name I can't remember,

a drug, a diagnosis, or simply disorder.

The furrowed signs of distress and despond,

the failure to bond and exasperation,

the trial separations from errant husbands,

the scars and bruises borne by the infant,

the rooted abhorrence roared at the parents.

But I've shovelled empathetic epithets

and unconditional regard, all that dirty laundry

into yellow plastic bags for waste disposal;

I no longer dance to the non-judgemental.

What's once contemplated can't be unthought:

they take me at face value; I sell them short.