The Good Doctor

The good doctor checks the chart,
Another chronic worrier, back again.
He fixes his expression to the correct one -
a perfect blend of caring concern,
then goes in.

"What's going on?" he asks,
and listens attentively,
brow furrowing into appropriate contemplative lines,
as she tries to describe her latest malady.

"Does this hurt? How about this?" he asks,
as he pummels the offending appendage.
He takes obligatory notes in the chart -
probably just writing, "Hyprochondriac returns."

But we'll never know, will we?

He carefully inspects the running shoes,
bending and flexing.
Looking thoughtful.
How can one be so thoughtful about shoes?

He knows what will make her feel better;
in this age of over-analysis and information overload.
"I think you're fine, but let's get an X ray."

You can see the relief in her face:
"Ah! We'll get some real answers now -
Answers that the Internet couldn't provide."

She looks over his shoulder as he peers at the films
That reveal the milky white bones of that pesky foot.
Ghosts come to snatch away that marathon dream.

"X Rays make me nervous," says the patient.
He chuckles.
"Why? These are perfect."

A clear bill of health is given;
nothing but some fibrous scar tissue
thanks to an errant piece of glass.

"I'll try to stop being so paranoid," she says as she puts on her shoes;
shoes with heels that he notices,
but doesn't scold her for.

He chuckles again.
"It's not a bad thing, Kathryn," he says,
pointing the way out of the room with her chart.

The elusive chart of yet another injury veteran
whose paranoia the good doctor is good enough to entertain.

Just one of the many runaway minds of crazy running people
that the good doctor knows how to put at ease with one phrase:
Yes. You can go run.