Back then, doctors drove black Cadillacs
and kept office hours at home.
I watched Dr. Sheer boil three dull needles
in a silver tray, screw them to glass syringes,
suck yellow extracts of ragweed and dust
from clear bottles, and drive each point
home. How courageous I felt as I rolled up a sleeve,
smelled alcohol(Drug information on alcohol) breathe from cotton balls,
kept my gaze steady on each pink welt.
And I loved the moment after,
when he scrubbed his hands, reached into his desk drawer for a lollipop,
and printed the date and doses in long columns
with his gold-tipped fountain pen.
One afternoon, fresh bandaids on my arm,
hands holding a football, the itch began
deep in my chest and throat, so deep
I wanted to swallow my hand and scratch.
I ran home to mother who called him,
then dragged me, blue faced, to the office
where he sat with the sports section.
I smelled alcohol, felt the stings,
and when I turned pink, he exhaled slowly,
nodded to my mother, then picked up the newspaper to finish his readings.