Boy, Apple, Twenty-Seven
Author: Bill Roberts
Marilyn, as she introduces herself,
is a neurologist almost my age.
She gazes deep into my eyes,
lo0king for trouble, I guess, though
I haven’t yet told her why I’m here.
It’s this ringing in my ears, I say.
I wonder if I have a tumor in there
somewhere that’s causing it -
at first one violin, now a whole
symphony orchestra full, all 0ff-key.
She still wonders if perhaps I’m sliding
into Alzheimer’s, the basis of her practice,
and asks me to remember the words,
Boy. Apple. Twenty-seven. B-A-T.
So, I commit them to memory. Done.
Half an hour later, when she returns,
I repeat, Boy. Apple. Twenty-seven.
She smiles, completes her exam, and
schedules me for an MRI in a week.
I walk out mumbling: Boy, apple, twenty-seven.
The MRI goes without a hitch, though
with more than a little bit of discomfort.
And noisy. All through it, I repeat those
three words: Boy, apple, twenty-seven,
over and over and over again.
I literally run into Dr. Marilyn several weeks
later in Whole Foods in the produce section.
I smile and say, Boy, apple, twenty-seven.
She tries to smile, searches deep in my eyes,
and says, I don’t recall that we’ve met.
(Published online in the May 2008 issue of Word Riot)
Note: True story-poem. I’ve had this ringing (tinnitus) in my ears for nearly fifteen years, thought it was time to see if there may be an obstruction or growth inside somewhere that caused it. Dr. Marilyn preferred to see if I were going down the rabbit hole into Alzheimer’s. There was no tumor or growth or evidence of Alzheimer’s, except when I had that chance meeting with her in Whole Foods. That was the day this old boy decided to buy apples, twenty-seven of them.
