Your bones are beautiful / And your bruises are art
A man sleeps in the sun on a bench across from the hospital. On the bench
diagonally opposed, across and beside him, an almost doctor eats cold noodles.
The man has his pants low, half cracked, and his hands on his genitals. We all
sleep sometimes with a hand in our pants.
For all the things we read in one day — / from CT scans to emails, / toxicology reports and lab results
Chief complaint: arm pain, / Waiting in room 4. / As I enter, he looks me up and down — / What is it he’s looking for?
A scalpel, a corpse — / His beard is neat, his eyes are / Empty. Gloves hide clammy hands / Afraid of what awaits beneath
You call me on a Thursday to tell me / You were diagnosed with leukemia in October.
Investigate. / Deeper, / deeper, / deeper: / To a depth of understanding beyond understanding.
I sit in the classroom, / staring blankly at the wall. / The professor has gone off once again, / regaling a story of some elderly patient’s fall.
Never committed a crime, / but now I feel like a prisoner. / Trapped in our minds, / our spirits leashed, / our existence wanders among these all too familiar walls.
One inch more than the measure of me, and one inch less than that of my father. It’s been a while since I lined up, back to back. But if I did, the space between us would only read two inches. Maybe less now that he is older. Nearly sixty. Closer to the next decade than the last.
Wake up a 5:00 a.m., / Cannot afford to be late. / It’s my first day of preclinical shadowing, / I want my first impression to be great.
I didn’t know / many can’t / sip coral pulpy bitter / juice from narrow glasses.