13thWR

THE PATIENT WITH KNEE PAIN

The story that ends
with knee pain
begins,
she is saying,
with her sister-in-law
last Tuesday
or was it Wednesday
her trip to Acton
or was it Stow?

I know the story will end
with her knee pain,
she has told me so,
know she will say very three times
before the word sore.
My mother would say very
just once before sore
but with intense conviction,
her eyes blinking italics.

I miss her,
but I cannot think about that
nor the email I just read
from my daughter
who wrote how awesome I was
for something I had done,
(the first time I'd loved that word).

I miss her too,
as this patient
continues the story
that will end with knee pain.
And as I think
of what prescription to write,
which X-ray to order,
I remember 10 years ago
at Disney, my daughter,
scraping her knee, crying,
till a big cartoon rabbit
gave her a hug
and then we went on a ride and
I covered her eyes
so she would laugh,
so that the only thing she would see
was the scribbly and perfect sound
of that laughter.

DOCTOR POEMS

Sometimes I write poems
between seeing patients
such as Jim
who extending a handshake says
doc I've got this pain
and he tells me of this
a cough his fever
and how some breathing
hurts his ribs and I listen
to his lungs his heart
look at tonsils eardrums
and writing a prescription
I said Jim I said
if you take this
you'll be better
call me if you aren't
he pauses a moment
then nods
thanks doc
have a good day.

In the chart I note
the symptoms, signs, diagnosis and treatment.
In the poem I note
the handshake, the pause, the nod.

MID LIFE

At some point,
close to our equator,
we begin to die,
before our faces swell and line,
and our bodies tilt and bulge,
before even the snow becomes gray.

We buzz and bump
summers' yellow porch lights
less. Life, which has asked of us everything,
then asks more.
Turgid intricate days
digress to swatches of sepia nostalgia.

We listen to our breathing
of which we know nothing
to learn how to feel,
about which we know less.
We no longer insist
on realigning our numerous
and vexing disjoints.

Others know.
Our daughters' hug is firmer.
Our sons pause to help.

So ask me again what you said didn't matter.
Shut off the lights, be still, and find the windows.
And if you want to know about love,

go to the ocean,

watch the tides,
don't think about the moon.

- Michael Zack