The doctor, when she sees me at eleven thirty, says
I have a meeting at twelve, so, we might be
mixing up the order of things, I suppose.
The doctor, when she asks me to lift both legs, says
most people can’t do that at once. And I make
the right kind of joke, the right kind of small talk
in the pace and timing of everyday-folk, like my dad
who is the face of the restaurant everyone loves,
in that dialect that Americans think is invisible.
And I wear that like a perfect Lucite shield molded to me:
the way my person, my place, the idea of me
can be so invisible that people like me, but vaguely
like they will like to forget me, too.