They call him a potato chip, casually,
as if naming a weather pattern,
like the boy who shows up every summer
just to chase storms instead of ice cream.
His face is familiar under fluorescent hum,
the rhythm of his visits unspoken,
but understood among clipboard confessions,
a pattern, a habit, a quiet ticking clock.
He comes in when the buzz wears down,
spilling over with reasons too light to hold.
A sore too small, a cough too soft,
a feeling that gnaws like an itch unseen.
He leaves with paper instructions,
folded corners in his jacket's pocket,
but they say it's never goodbye,
only a pause before another crunch.
Maybe it isn’t the ailment,
but the healing, the touch, the lights.
The way the air hums sterile yet safe,
unlike the messy, jagged world outside.
He keeps returning, a cycle uninterrupted,
like a chip in a bag that whispers,
“Just one more, just one more,”
until the bag is suddenly empty.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 14th, 2026 10:20
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments3
The metaphor works well Gray drawing a picture in the mind. Well done
Thank You Soren. The ER department calls patients frequent flyers and potato chips to the note patients who continually come back to the ER.
That's a very apt description but I bet the doctors get enough.
much enjoyed read
Thank You Norman
most welcome
Wow. What a metaphor played out prettily. Beautifully rendered with excellent imagery and a deeply haunting poignancy. Thank you for sharing.
Thank You Missy for sharing your feedback on my work. I appreciate it
My pleasure, you're more than welcome.
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