Chekhov by Austin Smith

Chekhov

They say you may have caught

tuberculosis from the peasants

who came to Melikhovo

to be seen by you. Hearing them

coughing in the hall you put down

your pen and rose from your desk.

Short of breath, they had travelled

all night to arrive by dawn, drawn

by rumors of your kindness.

While you warmed the stethoscope

in your hands and the old farmer

bared his chest, your character

stood patiently on the doorstep,

holding a letter of introduction

you had yet to write. The longer

you spent away from the story

the harder it would be to finish it,

but the hall was long, the line

out the door, and you would turn

none away, knowing how far

they had come for the comfort

of having someone

listen to their lungs and say it

sounded better than it sounded

while you stood breathing

in their sighs of relief,

saying, softly, “Next.”