Doctor, Heal Thyself

They hobble and bobble slowly
through the hospital portals,
leaning on canes, on crutches,
grasping walkers, pushed in wheelchairs,
an endless procession of the
infirm, the aged, the unfortunate
desiccated masses coughed up
by time, inheritance and misfortune,
anxious and fearful, yet believing
in the magic of modern medicine,
looking to the doctor pressing 
and prodding, reading blood pressure,
taking pulses, listening to the
irregularity of their heartbeat and
strange sounds that shouldn't be there;
questioning them, ordering tests,
writing prescriptions and urging
life upon them, to solve what
puzzles and terrifies them, unwilling
to precipitously leave what they hold
most dear, their quickness. And he,
well beyond mere burden acts and
reacts, reassures and cajoles, his face
increasingly creased in the
concentration required to separate 
them, one from another, prompting
his subconscious to rebellion as he
peers at records, gazes upon the obese
and the frail, wan glances turning in
appeal, never noticing that their
doctor has succumbed to his own
neurons firing warning shots.