The Healer Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He had what you'd call healing hands.
An aura seemed to cling to all his cells
inside and out, as if it were anchored
to the flesh and bones, deep down
where secrets live in silent hollows
watched by the one who's known
to just a few believers, and to me
as the internal doctor, Medicus,
in charge of all departments and
accountable to either God or Hell,
it all depended on your preference.

They came by car and train, or bus,
some walked and carried satchels
others dragged themselves, in rags
with just a hint of hope on sallow faces,
there was a steady stream, a liquid wave,
as if an ocean were approaching
in slow motion, but relentlessly.

The house was old, decrepit, with a porch
that once was called verandah,
a mix of logs and weatherboard,
ill-fitting windows reflecting images
of rough-hewn rocking chairs, a bench
whose back had been repaired
by using bailing wire, a hessian bag
and skills that did belong to other times.

The hall was huge, a dozen cots
were lined in a half circle facing stairs,
and there he stood, 'I'm Doctor Oh',
a checkered shirt, sleeves up, a cap
that would have been a precious souvenir
from foreign wars, still proudly olive green,
he took one look at patient number one,
the most critical the nurse had said,
and laid his hands upon the wheezing chest,
and in a second it was done, the man stood up
and stretched as if to say that he was bored,
his eyes looked watery and saw the distance
though no more hope was needed here,
he had been touched, and surely cured.

There was no sign of God, no hallelujah,
no 'Jesus Heals', and no collection tin,
the doctor simply went from cot to chair
then to the creaking stairs, to find infirmity
and, with his calloused hands he healed.

A notice from the bank hung at the door,
the words foreclosure clearly showed,
bold letters are so hard to overlook,
there was a sound that drifted closer now,
a motorcar, all black and with a light
flashing in red and blue, perhaps to greet
the masses of a suffering humanity.

The nurse who had been busy with the sheets
turned white herself as troupers came
up creaking stairs onto the porch that was,
in better days called a verandah, they kicked
while grinning broadly, feeble chairs,
and held a paper to the face of the good Doc.

He was arrested then, led down the path
handcuffed and roughly pushed and shoved,
and when the car drove off there was a moan,
it filled the house up to the cobwebbed rafters.
Those who were well again attended to the sick,
but there had been, from the beginning,
an understanding in the place, that once they did
not unexpectedly, cut out the heart and soul,
they'd take the doc away to give him what was due,
and at that moment, one could see if one had eyes
that all was lost and that the dying had begun again.