Vital Signs

The stethoscope left a ring of ice on my throat.

I’m out on the sidewalk now, the sun too bright

against the gray, salt-stained grit of the walk.

Inside, the keys clicked—a plastic, hollow sound—

as I told them how my fingers won't hold a pen.

They didn't look up. They just stared at the screen,

watching the cursor blink like a slow, green eye.

There was a coffee stain on the corner of the form,

a brown, dried moon where someone else had waited.

My hands are shaking in my pockets now,

two small, frantic birds I can’t seem to quiet,

while the traffic light changes and nobody notices the stall.