An Old Story

I look at him sitting there,
looking at me,
looking at his mother,
who's got her hands in her lap.
She's looking at the floor.

He tells me about it.
The.
Same.
Old.
Story.
(I try not to yawn
as I look at my watch)
The confusion.
The forgetting.
The wandering.
(At this point I reach for my pad)
The visits at
2, 4 ,5, 7 a.m.
The forgetting.
The wandering.
The visits at...

'Yes, yes,'
I say.
'Dementia.'
I scribble on my pad and
simultaneously
push a leaflet across the desk.
Multitasking.
What a doctor I am.
'A tablet before she goes to bed at night.
Read the leaflet.'

He pays me with a crisp note,
then guides his mother to the door.
The waiting room is full.
I look at my watch.
5 minutes.

Oh, yes.
Medicine.
It's a vocation.