“Good morning, Howard. I love you” / James whispered at seven o’ clock / Every morning / Like clockwork
Stamina waning / Along with my patience / For the number of patients / Presenting with an emesis of symptoms
“Are you sexually active?” / His stethoscope gleamed in the light / Of the hospital room.
Where do the squirrels go / during the rain? / Can they hear the thunder? / Can they feel my pain?
To my dearest dying patient: / May I emulate half your strength, / and a portion of your wisdom, / just a part of your life’s length.
Whenever someone hang glides, / They pick a place to land. / Somewhere soft and somewhere close, / Somewhere that they planned.
You claim that my choice breaks your heart, / as if mine isn’t shattered and cracked. / You think I don’t know how beautiful he’d be, /or wonder how he’d walk, talk and act.
A poem about gross anatomy from our writer-in-training Damien Zreibe.