I’m leaving my job 

And some of my patients’ faces look like they’ve been robbed 

When they bring it up 

They ask to follow me 

It’s flattering

But I know delighting in the praise of men is folly 

And the repetitive talk is somewhat maddening 

Just one more week of it 

The usual grind and a demise of sorts have abutted 

They ask where I’m going 

It’s a delicate line I find myself toeing 

I like to keep personal life personal 

Work, work 

Even if they read my journal 

And I never want to come off like a jerk 

But I tell them they won’t find me 

Some of them continue to pry and question 

To pester like poison ivy 

Eight and a half years is wrapping up 

I imagine a candy wrapper, Christmas paper, and tulips 

To everything there is a season 

Come the autumn equinox, I’ll find myself easin’ in to something new 

Life is a series of chapters 

This is just a transition, like falling leaves 

Can’t be captured

I don’t disclose my plans 

Though the distention in my abdomen causes some to understand

One more thing I won’t miss: all the negative comments

About my physique

I just won’t speak 

But reroute them back to business 

Ample time has been spent 

I will soon be gone

As will the leaves on the trees outside my office 

I shake off what I think is toxic 

Wash my hands for the trillionth time 

Give a few hugs to those who aren’t too obnoxious

I scribble some words, sentences, verbs on a page 

Walk around the office, unafraid 

And I breathe deeply for the first time there

Like someone after a long summer anticipating fall air

I log out and step out

Then look out – the rearview mirror 

No one is following me 

All my work, accomplishments, doings are history