poem

 Poem #31Where is the poem?That queasy feeling of the early morningYou can ’t tell if it’s roiling sicknessor the empty churn of the hungry Do you put something more inor let it all come back out?If you feed it who gets sated,And is it even enough?Will it erupt in waves of sour black bile, And if so, who gets to clean it up ?Perhaps it may stay downAnd nourish ravenousFlesh for a short whileYou know you have to do bothFill yourself up.Be the voracious gluttonWho consumes his own life.And when it ’s too muchYour body just seems to know,Releases it all in streams Of stanzas or prose.But this isn ’t quite it either.Flush as much as you canDown the toilet.Sop up the rest with torn rags.Make sure you're all alone.Only when you thinkThere couldn ’t possiblyBe anything left,When your gutIs empty and bereftOf all but a shallow poolOf acidy water brashCorrosive enoughTo dissolve bone,Once you reach this stageBeyond hope or doubt,Do one more thing.Stick your fingers In the back of your throatAnd save what comes out.This is your poem. 11/2/21

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - November 2, 2021 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs