poem

 Kleck Blot-after Justinus Kerner The cloudy indigo sky of the morningWas a Rorschach blot demandingInterpretation before I couldStart my hospital roundsIf you see a camel Wandering the shores of Lake ErieIt means you ’re a psychopathJust turn around and go back home If you perceive a zebra mounting your motherFrom behind take a bow, doff your capIt means your mind is half stripedHalf strappedAs for those other cloudsAvert your eyes from the billowingDress that shows too much when You stare too long at the liquid sunCall yourself from a burner phoneAsk to meet for lunchAnd then ghost him Like the pathetic fool deservesI ’m just a surgeon, not a priestThe only religion I know is alone in the ICUWatching a post op slowly swirl Around the edges of the drainWhen the family comes in the morningThe intensivist and hospice nurseAdvise that they pull the plugWhich is the worst metaphor;Uncle Hank isn ’t just a toaster You can disconnectWhen he catches on fire. These particular clouds are dark and inkyBut nothing like storm clouds.Dr. Kerner would draw faces on themAnd turn them into clownsLaughing down at me as I slotted my modest little carIn its tidy little space in the pared down doctor ’s lot Of the perfectly redundant suburban hospital  Where I show up every day to work.One day Kerner conjured a sawmill From a particular lobular inkblotWhich is odd given the relative sharpnessOf the toothed circular blade&n...

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - November 14, 2023 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs