My flesh stripped from the bones,
the body miraculous
stands but as a series of groans
and gears in breach of trust;
MRIs & Cat Scans only tell so much.
Silence from loved ones, the sentence
unjustly delivered by mere instrument.
The Doc’s not much better with bed manner;
O, I suppose that once he was,
before giving the news became
the norm, like blood to be withdrawn:
before the babes’ weeping had claimed
that last corner of what it meant to be
a doctor, and save the births and the children
he’d rather be fishin’, or so said the pin
suspended from his lab coat’s vest pocket.
Drooping and thinking of the rafter beams,
the dangling rope, the suspension of self
aloft, I took note of a glimmering hope,
perhaps I’d beat the odds and those damn beep,
beep, beep, beeping machines.
© J.P.V.
