Maybe it was miscommunication
I did not like the surgeon
he smelled my repugnance-
I could tell
he did not like me either
his contempt was visible-
he showed it well.
I admit-
I didn't understand-
why he chose his profession
And he would not comprehend
my craft, the art of confession
his speaking in tongues
jargon of gibberish
made my vivacious vernacular
sound smoothly spectacular
our inept oral interchange,
vacuous verbal exchange,
was an outer-species communication
comprehension lost in each others translation
I know
I should probably apologize
for stepping on his big toes
but that is the least of his woes
when a patient is just as wise
(and says so)
I suppose
I should concede
we are seldom both in dire need
And,
I confess, we do the same thing
I guess, rip people's guts out
trying to save their life...
I use a pen,
he prefers the knife.
Image by David Teniers the Younger [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, a malicious surgeon extracting stones from a grima.
