.o Pateras, The Good Doctor Poem by Cretan Maineiac

You look just like
him, some say, that
Spartan frame oddly augmented by
lordosis gut, glasses, & those leaky
kidneys. I
had to move his obit to

the bottom drawer, or be
reminded each
time of that permanent absence, out
of the very Way he helped
Pave.
“The good doctor, ” one teacher

called him
once, pausing
for laughs, getting
none. Two thousand babies delivered &
over a hundred
White Pines planted. Even strolling through the

woods had purpose: firewood for
winter, KEEP OUT
Signs to be erected against eminent
domain, trail bikes & snowmobiles (“They say
they love the
Ecology and then run their machines all over
It.”) and a loaded.22 to protect the back-
yard veggies from
vermin all the while helping aged patients remember what
year it was during
Wednesday office hours &
Sunday morning rounds before church.

O Pateras, we called him (Anglicized: Daddy) , who by Chasing me kept me
Moving
toward the next
base (“we'll show those Mutts”) even if it meant running my team out of a
big inning, &
when I said I can’t he said

“Well CAN! ” & told me the only reason to
Slide was
to avoid being tagged, & that
Golden rods meant
School was
About to start.

“He’s a good doctor, ” said some, as
if to
convince me. “First, do no

Harm…” stood posted in his
Office, next
to the NO SMOKING sign (not
one mention of his role in
Liberating the
Patrida of Nazis) , the Caduceus, Christos kai

Panagia, the examining table (w/
stirrups) and
that fading Polaroid of
Mummy & all the
children
on the D.C. Capitol steps, no

awards for manning the
ER, 'he saved
my life, ' sd. many, charts

scattered & blowin' in the
wind, names &
addresses unknown to nominators of paper honors, until

That Day in 2001 when the state
benched him,
permanently, for bad eyesight. Come

August that year those kidneys
Liberated him
from further obligation to family,

country, & the
whole
earthly realm, golden rods batter-fried in the A.M. dew, along the

Way, where vegetables once thrived. The obit (we wrote) confirmed he was a war
hero, defender of The Faith, good doctor. That evening brought

weird stars outside the
sound mind, not
visible aloft the trees in the

Eastern twilight sky, reported as
News amid
coupons by our Sunjournal. He still gets bills addressed to

him, & Invitations to
events
from the Archons, incidental Reminders of

the man the church bulletin limned 'tall,
elegant, dignified, ' richer in
spirit than bankbook, always 25, the

blue & white Villa @ the end of that long driveway on
Hogan Road – that
left him in the red— surrounded by those white pines, whose

needle bunches stand like
middle fingers
saluting the three-car garage, the church on

the front seven reflecting the
stubborn pride that
both afflicts & blesses over-achievers, a

byzantine intellect &
dry, backyard garden
wit.

“...just like him, ” some say
of me, &
I can only wish.