He was monotoned just before he hung up the phone

She said, “he’s got the personality of an ashtray”

Her best friend told her, “But you like him anyway”

Their relationship was acrid

She wondered how he could be so placid

About her weight, about her blood pressure and headaches

Did he even care about her fate

There was smoke in the air

She put on make-up

Would he care

She went to his office, talked about her neighbors and about her siblings and even strangers

Her heart rate was high

She asked him, “Am I gonna die?”

He listened to her heart and felt her thyroid

His face was stoic

What was her diagnosis – did he know it?

His hair was a whitish-gray

It reminded her of her grandpa’s ashtray

She talked a mile a minute while he sat across from her and stared

He had to tell her, if he dared

“It’s the second-hand smoke from all these years

And it’s the anxiety that’s bringing you to tears”

He didn’t make eye contact

She sat back

He scribbled something on a paper

Told her he’d see her later

He walked out, feet barely making a sound

She looked at the ground

Then when outside, at the paper he’d given

Turns out it wasn’t a prescription – or was it?

It was an invitation to the comedy club

That old shrub, she thought

So she went there that night

And what do you know, behind the mic was him – cracking jokes

And scattered among the folks was her lady friend she always complained to

From the stage he punched: “I’m her doctor, not her therapist!”

The crowd chuckled at the punch line

Then in no time her lady friend approached her from behind

She said, “I guess having the personality of an ashtray pays”

The doctor-comedian walked over and told his patient, “I’m glad you found  your way”

He winked and she blushed

Over some drinks, under the dim lights, life they discussed

She started to feel better and couldn’t believe his peppy tone

After all, it was a no-smoking and beyond-“just-friends” zone