A Pome a Day for a Year

“Hey doc, thanks for seeing me.”
The couch is smooth and leathery,
not the favoured material but passable.

The room airy and regal;
knowledge lines walls
in rectangular fashion
while dust flitters aloof
through sunshined rays.

“It happened again doc.”

The doctor nods in rythmn to the words,
a jazz lament or a soul disagreement
they pass from lips to ear.

“He forgot about me. Every eight days,
was ‘sposed to be. It’s been ten.
He forgot doc. Why did he forget?
Did I do something wrong?
No longer flavour of the month?
Yesterday’s hasbeens?”

The doctor stands sadly and wanders
to fretting Trevor, and lays a hand on
cold shoulders.

“I am sorry Trevor. It is not you.
You are wonderful.
It is me. I messed up.”