Deaf patient

You can't make small talk with a pen.
A physician who talks too much,
a twentysomething patient with slender hands
and a diagnostic clipboard.

In an overflowing morning
we alternate scratching through the history.
Laborious, luxurious.
In the wait while she writes
the quiet is lovely and full:
the roll of the wheels on my stool,
air blowing through the ducts,
the rush of wet tires on Bayswater.
Tangible as my scribbled
‘Pain? Fever? Nausea?’

The pelvic is pure procedure,
a silent demonstration on a model
that blinks, breathes.
I mute the clang of the speculum,
the rustle of packaged swabs.
No words, no audience, and I am no disturber of the peace.

Slanting up the margins
the writing, visit, calm, stretch on,
for side effects look sinister, omissions are obvious in print.
When pens are down, heads up, she signs thank-you;
with black hair, dark eyes, white teeth
she is bright and magnified.