A Visit to the Podiatrist

‘I know your face,’ she says.

I recall those times in her waiting room,

waiting.

And helping him afterwards

manoeuvre the wheely-walker

down the steep steps.

‘You used to treat my husband,’

I tell her. Pause.

‘My late husband.’

‘Ah,’ she says. ‘When did he…?

I lost my father

just a few months ago.’

She means to indicate

she knows what it’s like.

I doubt that.

As for fixing my crooked toe —

too complicated, too expensive;

I’ve left it much too late.

Poetic Asides Wednesday prompt #220: a late poem