The Specialist Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

The Specialist

Rating: 5.0


A purple scribble, his referral,
GP to specialist in haematology,
a minor glitch had reared its head
and bumped the noisy bells
of -surely- premature alarm.

He knew that feeling fine did count
as badly needed comfort for them both.
He whistled then, to hide, at least for now
all thoughts of doom from her. She smiled,
though only with her Roman nose and lips.
Preserving privacy of ageing hazel eyes.

The doc was running late, would they just sit,
fill out the form and help yourselves to those brochures,
time would be soon, she'd call his name at once.
He was afflicted with a bothersome condition,
an angry bladder with no patience, none at all.
Would always focus on the nearest public loo
preventive medicine as sober strategy.

A flash of white was gone again, it would be soon,
the place was silent and devoid of other souls.
It was the coffee that now gurgled in his groin
and drove him up to reach the safety just in time.
It would not budge for this old man though he was strong,
with bulging biceps well conditioned, mocking age .
The out of order note had fallen to the floor,
and now the doctor called his name, there, by the door.

He was an arrogamus, full of high conceit.
And held his nose as though the stench was something new,
and all in all it was a meaningless melée,
the brief encounter of a dissonant to do.
He died that week, alone and in the night,
no hands to hold but dreaming of the shame,
that pissy aneurism, up there in his brain
had been elusive to the vague and probing eyes.
But to the doctor it was really all the same.

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