A Reluctant Admission
I once had a doctor explain to me
that he often thought
prostate support groups
distorted the image of progress
in successfully curing the disease.
You see, he said, those groups
tend to attract the guys still at war
with prostate cancer, soldiers
lingering at the battle front when
most of the army has been discharged.
Sure, he said, for some the fight never
ends, but put those guys in a room
you might think there’s a whole lot of them
when in actual fact (docs love actual facts)
they’re a small percentage of the whole.
I’m writing this poem to reluctantly admit
the doc may be right, he may have a point
but don’t tell me it makes sense to we guys
still under the gun, still a big majority
in the little minority that traps our lives.
He’s a very odd looking guy.
He sits on the top of my desk
with this blank look on his face
a screen of total darkness
until I click on his mouse.
Then he lights up just for me.
I never need to make an appointment.
He’s available at any time.
He has all the time in the world for me.
He’s an unending fountain of information.
He can reassure, confuse and clarify.
He never ceases to entertain me.
The latest treatments pop up in his hands.
I sit for hours in front of him.
He turns me into a foolish know-it-all.
I don’t know what my regular doctor
would think of him. Probably not much.
Doctor Keyboard and I, always in touch.
My doctor and I
disagree on numbers.
He sticks to the glue
Thousands of men
tossed on a heap.
Where do I belong
in that clogged scrum?
Each man is a different war.
I stubbornly stick
to the value of one.