Am I sick
and post notes and photos about your poem like Lewis Raynes.
Doctors surgeries all over the world have sick people.
Sitting alone in the magazined room
Reading health trends at our local GP.
There was a group of eight, down and out,
Thinking there’s places we’d all rather be.
I hear my name, “Yes, this should be quick”,
I go and sit on the examination table.
This doc should be able to fix everything up,
A few pills to make me feel stable.
He then gets a call, leaves with a smile.
“Bugger” I hear myself think.
So I sit there and observe the eye charts,
Reading glasses, computers and little white sink.
And this gets me thinking, I wonder what ills
People come here to this surgery to fix?
Who needs the penlight, hammer, and scale?
Who needs the tongue depressing lips?
Are these for acne, sore arms, sore legs,
Colds, sneezing fits, small limps or runny noses?
How many are hypochondriacs just wanting a talk,
Saying they’re allergic to little red roses?
But then I see the defibrillator, catheters,
Blood pressure gauge, gloves and needles.
It’s clear some folks are really crook, with arthritis,
Strokes, cancers or measles.
So I get off my overblown, inflated high horse,
And appreciate what this doc goes through.
And then he returned, diagnosed my affliction.
Smiling he said “Rest, drink water and use a tissue”.
Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2016
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