I waited in a chair
by the door
next to the long table
filled with magazines
the New Yorker, Times and People.

He stepped out
with his head round and bald as
St. Paul’s Cathedral
wearing a Mr. Roger’s smile
saying “welcome to my neighborhood”
and “you are special."

When I walked in it must have been raining
because lightening striked me.
I felt the zing like a pinball bounced off the bumpers
lightening up the numbers.

I told him the man before him was my father’s psychiatrist.
He took notes more he than he observed.
Probably because he forgot as soon
as the patient walked out the door.
He slipped the notes in a file that was numbered.
I was never going to be another number.
So, I left him for the Mr. Fred Rogers special.