Doctor ....
He sees you every six months and
you seem to think your advanced age
gives you liberty each time to tell him
how weary he looks, how strained and
you admonish him as though he is the
patient and you the doctor. He regards
you thoughtfully, shrugs and admits he
needs a rest but cannot see where he
would find one. Too busy, too many
calls on his expertise, too much you
know, responsibility. And you part of
course amicably, in hand yet another of
his prescriptions for a test, one of many
he has prescribed for you a woman an
elderly woman with an irregular heart
condition. His wan and worn image
stays with you and when the telephone
rings and his office informs you that
your cardiologist will be 'away' for
three months leaving others to care for
his patients while he recovers from
surgery you are not surprised that his
cardiologist has sent him to a cardiac
surgeon to undergo open heart surgery.
Friday, November 16, 2018
Labels:
Poetry
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