Streetside Clinic

By: Luke Gatta

My stethoscope feels like a Fisher-Price toy
when I push against his denuded chest.
The sounds are hard to hear when he speaks.

He talks, endlessly,
of hustling, snorting, prison.
A job here and there.
Two suicide attempts, 
four daughters, 
somewhere.

I need to auscultate, 
so I ask about tomorrow.

He pauses.

I hear two beats,
and they sound no different than mine.