But they're not scrubs

Are you a doctor?
The little boy asked.

Why?
I wonder...

Because I get band aids for your fingers?
Because I tell you to take care of yourself?
Because I make you put away your bag of marshmallows and eat your apple sauce instead?
Because I hold things together with strong surgical (read: duck) tape?
Because I triage your ailments right here in the classroom?
Because I am gogogogogo all day?
Because I do paperwork for hours after you leave the building?
Because I send you to wash your hands after you stick your fingers up your nose?
Because I tell you it is dangerous to lick the lead from your pencil?
And the crayons in your case?
Because I care about you and for you?

I didn't know you were a doctor.
The little boy said again.
Are you a doctor?

No.
I conclude.
I don't think so.

Then why are you wearing doctor clothes?

Oh.

My pants.
I look down.
They're light blue,
maybe a touch baggy.
My shirt.
It's crisp and white.

Go sit down.
I say.
And soon, I all but forget about my clothes.

After all, I've got patients to see.