Doctors


Doctors

 

 

They descend on us like seraphim

in their white coats

armed with pens, clipboards

and prescription pads,

stethoscopes dangling from their necks

like opera glasses,

visiting us

in the small cubicles

they have set aside

for those seeking salvation,

armed with battalions

of note-taking residents and interns,

adulatory nurses. They come

in all shapes– the handsome,

football-ridden orthopedists,

the suspicion-evoking gynecologists

and the weary podiatrists,

so tired of feet and toes,

yet each is tangentially God-like

with evoked possibilities,

each has cure and longevity in his grasp

and knows we will worship them

if they only remove from us

whatever ill-willed little species

have invaded our bodies.

 

They know we will sing their praises

to whoever is next in line

in the waiting room

as long as we awaken again

from the anesthetic

as long as the new hip

or the resurrected kneecap

can swivel again

with some modicum of pleasure

as long as the metal detectors

don’t mistake us for terrorists

and our wives and husbands

for strangers, our gods for assurances

of eternity, their pretty nurses

for the love of our lives.

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