"As I Walk Out, He Walks In"

I step out of a Berkeley chiropractic office,
   resolved to integrate what my doctor had just adjusted,
By swinging . . .

As I walk out, He walks in,
   unmasked,
   a man from a different race.

Me,
   swinging my arms and legs in a walking ritual
   that I learned decades ago from my first chiropractor,
   a man from my race.

I step out of the chiropractic office,
   and immediately unmask,
   leaving my face bare to breathe fresh air
   and Nature’s suburban beauty.

As I walk out, He walks in,
   unmasked,
   a man from a different race.

I step out of that Berkeley chiropractic office,
   to re-enact my walking ritual
   and reset my attitude.

Because
   my first thought is so completely involuntary
   and moves faster than my eyelashes can flutter.
Faster than the remote control that I so prized as a child
   revealed message after message about
   who deserved the opportunities of our noble country.

Is my bag and jacket full of cash really safe,
   guarded by the office secretary from my race?

Had I ever been adjusted by someone
   of a different race?
That answer comes as I attend to my ritual . . .

I think back to my presence in the waiting room,
   smug in my patronizing
   possibly the only chiropractic office
   to have jazz (and its predecessor, the Blues) playing,
   while I wait —
African in its origin,
   the music that supports my livelihood.

My Reptilian Brain swells with pride,
   proud of protecting me from
The foreign,
   the mysterious,
   the buried doubt in this man’s qualifications.

Yet,
   I squirm in shame
   at the memory of this man’s obvious skill and intuition
   and gentle humor.

As I walk out, He walks in,
   while the presiding doctor from a different race
   watches . . .
And smiles. 

     

 

May 2023

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©2023, Michael Smolens