Doctors
They descend on us like seraphim
in their white coats
armed with pens, clipboards
and prescription pads,
stethoscopes dangling from their necks
like opera glasses,
visiting us
in the small cubicles
they have set aside
for those seeking salvation,
armed with battalions
of note-taking residents and interns,
adulatory nurses. They come
in all shapes– the handsome,
football-ridden orthopedists,
the suspicion-evoking gynecologists
and the weary podiatrists,
so tired of feet and toes,
yet each is tangentially God-like
with evoked possibilities,
each has cure and longevity in his grasp
and knows we will worship them
if they only remove from us
whatever ill-willed little species
have invaded our bodies.
They know we will sing their praises
to whoever is next in line
in the waiting room
as long as we awaken again
from the anesthetic
as long as the new hip
or the resurrected kneecap
can swivel again
with some modicum of pleasure
as long as the metal detectors
don’t mistake us for terrorists
and our wives and husbands
for strangers, our gods for assurances
of eternity, their pretty nurses
for the love of our lives.