The General Practitioner

A family doctor.

A dereliction for a prescription.

Surgery and perjury rhyming for a reason.

A monster manipulating a mouse and caressing a keyboard.

I am thinking, what is he thinking?

He is thinking, what am I thinking?

And I am still thinking

and he is still thinking.

An anatomical skeleton, old curiosity shop sapien, scribing suppressants.

An abattoir hung, animal skin satchel, sleeping unsoundly in death.

And amongst hemoglobin and probing,

something said about serotonin.

Twice taken tablets

and capsules that will censor and curb.

For the rest of my natural life.

However short that may be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© swissterrace 2022
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critique and comments welcome.
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Guaj

I really liked this Pandora’s box of a poem. So briefly and cleverly written and yet so much hidden away inside. The key is the word sanotonin, but I would hesitate at using it to unlock secrets.

Bhi

A beautifully created poem, ST. But I do feel that you do GPs a dis-service! They try to do the best and eventually get worn down, as we all do.

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