Sitting in the waiting room, again. The doctor wants me to come in every month now, for check up, he says. What's the point, I know I have a bad heart, and he ain't making me any better. As long as Medicaid pays for it... They always make me wait forever. The girl at the desk keeps telling me "The doctor will be with you soon, please take your seat." Pretty young thing but I can tell she doesn't like me, doesn't want me to approach. Reminds me of the girl next door, the one I share the toilet with, I sometimes watch her through the peephole in the door when she passes by in the hallway. She looks at my door funny. The questions are always the same: "How have you been? Are you still experiencing shortness of breath? Are you taking your medications? Is there anyone, a family member, who could look after you?" Told him a number of times, "The wife is dead, and my son and I, we're not talking." But he keeps asking. "You need to take better care of yourself, pay more attention to your hygiene." None of his business, as far as I'm concerned. I don't like to take showers and smell all soapy. I like to smell like myself, reminds me of who I am and where I belong. I like it when I come home and can smell myself long before I reach my apartment door. The people in that building, they have no idea what I'm doing for them. Spent my life delivering their mail. Now I pick up their garbage for them, the brochures and delivery menus they just let pile up in the hallway at the entrance. And how many times have I chased away the homeless guy who tries to sneak into the building to sleep there. I bet he'll just move in once I'm not around any more, but that's their problem. waiting room, doctor, heart, smelly man, mail, garbage