Doctor's Smoke Jar Poem by Sandy Player
They've put me back together again.
Staples and paper making up for skin,
Each perscription another dry and thin sheet.
The doctor hangs his blood flecked white apron,
His angel suit put away, and he's that man.
The epidermis he transferred is already peeling off, like a napkin.
But I am above men and cats,
You bees that make your hives then sting trees.
I am a sort of wasp-like thing.
A blue mutant wasp whose sting never sticks,
I am left with more unused venom after every attempt;
My brothel where I frenetically infect myself.
I sit on the wood-wormed bench outside it
And slip my eyes into the pages of a catalogue.
They always said I had large pupils.
There is nothing in it that works, my! I've tried.
Now I cannot afford to buy a grave
But here and there the publisher smuggles a new section or page.
Those pages don't glide off quickly like that doctor's,
They fit snug like the benignant hangman's rope
To where my inside used to rent.
My need is just a lighter, or a forest fire;
Heat like that from a mother's sickbed.
Then I can laugh the last word
As they spin scalpels
And an oxygen mask to put the smoke into
A jar on the operating table.
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Comments about this poem (Doctor's Smoke Jar by Sandy Player )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(16 April 1918 – 27 February 2002)
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- On the Ning Nang Nong, Spike Milligan
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- 'Hope' is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson
- Why so pale and wan, fond lover?, Sir John Suckling