Potato Chip Patient

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.