Last visit to Doctor John's

This place
Where babies are planned
To be brought into the world
And young children play with the toys
And babes are in evidence
And the radio plays from the ceiling.

This place
Which couldn't bring us
Our little one
For very long.

Brown carpet, brown bench seats
Brown panelling
And brushed metal
Along the counter.
The fish tank
The photography journals
And trashy magazines
And the row of the radio.

The water cooler
And the pleasant manner of the midwives
In the examining rooms, taking blood pressure
And Dr. John's office,
with his daughter's art
And the sound of his voice
As he stands at the corner and says,

"Come in folks."

This place
This exercise
We went through
Which I don't understand
Because it came to nought,
Almost nought,
Where one is a viable life
And nought is otherwise.

This place,
This last visit,
In review of what has passed by us and between us
Which carries
Not the name of a file
But the name of our daughter.