Medicine Man Poem by Sonny Rainshine

The newly licensed interne
scoffs at shamans, herbalists,
and witch doctors,
as he lifts his vial of
purple tablets
toward his patient
and shakes it
rhythmically.

He scoffs at those
charletans who “read”
auras, prognosticate from
palm prints and tarot cards,
as he studies his CAT scans
and EEGs as a theologian
poring over the Dead Sea scrolls.

Thumping and rattling
bones with his expensive instruments,
he pooh-poohs poultices
and potions, as he scratches
out indecipherable hieroglyphics
for narcotics and mood-enhancers.

Managed care, he assures us,
will set us free from
the stranglehold of our superstition.
Step into my apothecary
and behold the magic
of modern pharmacology.