He sat across from me at the table:

Tall, athletic,

hair loss evident in the middle of his round head.

“You see,” he said.

“You see, this is just not possible.

The doctor would know, he would.

He would tell what he knew.”

I nod my head once,

my thoughts slither and curl about my mind.

You weren’t there, I think.

You weren’t there when this doctor,

this professional, fucked up the diagnosis.

Neither was I.

But it could happen.

I read his words carefully,

Search eagerly for a mistake.

Not that comma, that’s okay,

That word, though awkward,

I must admit is good enough.

Better, perhaps, than a synonym.

As I give him my critique,

As I watch his face as I point out his flaws,

He looks a bit abashed.

“You can’t swim in Phoenix’s canals,”

I say. “How would you climb out?”

Puzzled, “You can’t?” he says.

I grasp this moment in my mind,

A trophy for my win.

“But you,” he says. “But you,

Your writing is too good for this…

cliche.”

My face reddens at the dirty word.

Inside, a spark of recognition.

He thinks it’s good.