Health Care

"We all have things to do, you know, and, anyway,
Our hands are tied," the portly matrons in the
Doctor's office curtly say to me before they start
To slaver at the thought of having lunch. I spend
The day in howling pain. I need another bottle
Of the opiate I had before, but I can't get one. There's
A snag. My doctor has to certify to my insurance
Company that I am not some abject addict bent
On getting wasted on the dimes of others with
Insurance. There's a lot of paperwork, and all
The matrons do their best to try to stay away
From it (until they've ordered lunch, at least),
And all the doctors hate to have to search for
Where to sign their names, and, so, the bottle's
Not replaced, and, so, the pain, emboldened,
Circles in, and thrills to hear me howl. The matrons
Stuff their faces, and the doctors plan to get away,
And I writhe on a chair at home. I am of no concern
To them. They all have things to do.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 59 times
Written on 2018-01-13 at 01:15

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