Most people don’t know what to be when they grow up.
I’m three years old and I know what I want to do.
It’s something I’ve known since my very first checkup.
My Mommy’s a nurse and I want to be one, too.
In the middle of the night, my tummy was hurt,
So I went to my Mommy’s side of the bed.
I grabbed her sethopope and put it under my shirt.
Yep, I was right. I knew it all along in my head.
I am in the doctor’s office
waiting for my husband having his usual checkup
three people are having conversations
with other people using cellphones
you want to see the video of you getting shots when you were one?
He plays the video for her saying “you got a shot here, here and here”
She is about three and begins whining as she watched this video.
Daddy says “What is wrong with you?”
Lady across the aisle is asking “did he wet the bed last night?”
I am amazed that people think it is okay to talk on the phone in public
Maybe it is a way to prevent conversation with strangers
It works for me
It’s not okay a heavy make-up
Ahead of a medical check-up
And - please believe me-it’s a up:
If doctor is handsome “a set up!”
It’s a patient’s right: a good make-up
Before a booked medical check-up
But some medic for sweet face “Thumbs up!”
While Mascara could a check-up screw up…
At last, somebody shall be tensed up
The medical check-up time used up!”
We should image what next might crop up:
Perhaps, one’s husband with gun “Hands up!”
Boyfriend “Smart Baby this game is up…”
Smart baby like a bridge to blow up!
Manson, the surgeon.
I know of a famous neuro-surgeon who retired at 65
to write a book that made him more famous
Now he is 72 and has cancer of the testicles, life
in the fast lane has ended.
In the night, he is visited by patients who died
on his table or left in a vegetive state, this I think
is caused by him performing surgery when he knew
the outcome
He tells the dead, he followed procedure, somehow
this sounds like “Follow orders” is what the guilty of
war crimes say.
He worries about getting old and decrepit needing a nurse
to wipe his bum, so undignified for a famous man.
When he visits his hospital where he reigned supreme
he is forgotten except for the relic of a porter who
salutes him, he is glad for that.
The newer generation sees him as an old man coming
for his checkup and treats him with hurried nonchalance.
Sic Gloria Mundi.
Start now knowing joy,
that’s an order,
overcome a deepening solitude.
Like a bee at a bugle
or me at the deli
on Third Avenue.
I said to Joe when do you think this weather will break?
He jokes, April.
That’s no joke. Weak creatures die and the strong barely survive.
Half a year goes by
another cancer checkup.
Cheer up. Any weather’s
better than no weather at all.
There’s always governance
even when there is no government.
My candidate drops out
after Iowa. Why do I always lose
at politics and poker?
Peace at last!
No lawnmowers, no leafblowers.
Big comfy couch.
Meditate on this: Do what has to be done.
Find your lover gazing at the moon
and take your garbage to the dump.
Your web site evaporates
and your possessions are thrown in the dumpster
except your trumpet which finds its way to a future trumpeter.
In younger days, my doctor calls
Were few and far between.
A checkup visit wasn’t ever
Part of my routine.
But aging changes all of that
For everyone is trying,
By seeing every specialist,
To staunch the fear of dying.
So now a dermatologist
Will check a brand-new mole.
Suspicious bloodwork? You’re in
Hematologist’s control.
Of course, the gynecologist
Must get a yearly see
And ophthalmologists and those
In rheumatology.
Let’s not forget those stress tests
Cardiologists insist on
And also the urologists
Whose plastic cups get pissed on.
Most gastroenterologists
See clients up in years
And certainly psychiatrists
See seniors for their fears.
I wonder if we might be
Better off just saying “**** it”
For all these doctors can’t prevent
Our kicking of the bucket.
Trump Health Checkup Periodic
Trump health checkup became periodic,
And are sure and certain he is psychotic;
Is always afraid,
Of queen a spade;
Started a new drink called Trump tonic.
Jim Horn
My son went for a checkup, wound up in emerge
Docs were alerted, thought he might be on the verge
He's only fifty-two
Has a stressful job beaucoup
Tests proved negative but caution should be urged
He was a temporary hookup
He went out like a garbage pickup
He was ugly at most
Tasted burnt like toast
Soon I'll need a medical checkup
The Telephone,
Invader of my Space
3/14/2016
How many times daily does our Telephone ring?
Twenty or thirty I think I’d be safe in saying.
It’s always one needing an errand run or a thing,
Or some politician with a penchant for braying;
The 800 numbers are my calls of least choice,
Or toll free service her voice will announce.
My machine answers in her most pleasant voice,
While I wait with a ball bat ready to pounce;
Some start the conversation with a “Hey Tom what’s up”,
Like themselves and I we’re old friends out of touch.
While I have visions of their brain in a Styrofoam cup,
Then quickly realize some might think this too much.
My rule is, say something, and most times I’ll pick up,
Then consider yourself fortunate, if and when I do.
Some calls I appreciate if made just to checkup,
I just I don’t like phones it’s nothing personal with you.
Tom
My recent encounter, an annual checkup
with blood tests and pressure, my height against weight
are all carried out to check my bits are working
and put back the time where I cross Heaven's gate.
I could tell porky pies* and thus possibly fiddle
the whole diagnosis and how it turned out
but the cholesterol count, and the flab round the middle
meant the nurse wasn't fooled and results held no doubts.
I've got to cut down on the red meats like bacon,
and white meat like chicken has proteins and fat
I thought cheese was OK, but no, I was mistaken
and pastries and biscuits? Forget about that.
So into the future, a healthier lifestyle
me confident now all the boxes are ticked,
you'll spot me, no ignoring the pale looking,boring
guy sat on his own with a celery stick.
( *Porky pies- 'Lies' . Cockney rhyming slang)
You went to the doctor’s office
for your regular checkup
The results came back
about that persistent hiccup ...
which nearly scared you to death
There wasn’t no good report,
only very bad news
No rose-colored health bouquet,
just the lingering sick blues
The doctor said you got six months to live,
and before you checkout,
which organs would you care to give
That’s the reward sent to you,
for putting your trust in man
Now you’re standing at the edge of the grave,
with the shovel in your hand
You just joined the walking dead,
those who believed everything a man said
When will the bulb come on in your empty head,
that God’s the only one who knows
what time you will have go to your earthen bed
Here’s one preacher’s advice to you:
Don’t get the itch you can’t scratch,
don’t get the sore that can’t be patched
Don’t get the suffocating wheeze,
don’t get the dreaded fretting disease
If you do get a terrible ailment,
and in man you put all of your trust
You surely are gonna lament,
as they prematurely nail your coffin shut
Hear that sound coming from your
television set
Government warning: This is not a test!
There’s no music rocking
from your radio
Only the shrill alert of an emergency signal
indicating transmission shutdown
Better put on an aluminum tin foil hat
to block out the penetrating EM waves
Unauthorized dark-net instructions
rapidly rappelling
over your cranial firewall
Audio emissions
spiking an intrusive breach
Fertile mind-control conditions,
activate the patriotic sleeper sells
Keep the pocketbook within reach
You never thought to ask
how did you get that small scar
on the side of your neck
When you went to the doctor
for a regular checkup visit
Anesthesia clouds your memory,
microchip implantation
not put on your medical history
Audio emissions
now have put someone else
in control of you
Stay on script to the program,
that’s all you can do
Can no longer block
the high-tech matrix
noise pollution coming through
Audio emissions
have made a human robot out of you
It's that time in life where a letter arrives
every year for my medical tests,
and the gadgets are showing just how I am going
but leave my nurse not too impressed.
Sphygmomanometer is the machine that checks
how my blood pressure's going,
I mention it since it may be the first time
that you've seen the word used in a poem.
My body mass index was eight points too high,
not quite enough to be a killer,
but seemingly it's enough to qualify
for a job as a part time Gorilla.
One of her questions is how much I drink
since too much can be terribly bad,
but since I'm not hooked up to a Polygraph
I feel I can lie just a tad.
Cholesterol level is high, she tells me,
and that is what worries me most,
since just one small sample of blood would be ample
to spread with a knife on some toast.