An Appointment | Liz Pascoe

My son’s name is called
from behind the registration desk.
The woman’s camel tongue spits
between her plaqued teeth the need
for his insurance card. As I sew
my fingers into my wallet in search
of the card (I swear it was here
when we left) my eyes are pulled
to the vibrant, tropical fish in the aquarium.
My son whispers secrets to them and asks
if they are hungry and would they like cake.
He pokes the glass leaving mucous fingerprints
for the fish to kiss.