Dr Still

poem of an imperious doctor dying

Doctor Still

"Nurse, get me my urinal,"
The patient cries to her departing back
Although it lies within his reach;
After all, he was a doctor, wasn't he?

Irritation is his only affect. Otherwise
He might as well be dead. He holds himself
So still, so motionless, so haughty: what right
Has Pain to live in him?
And why can't those attending him take care of it?

His tone, for nurse or wife, is tolerant at best.
His tombstone might do well to say,
"He did not suffer fools gladly."

Watch his countenance, his voice,
When his minister comes in.
His mouth strains itself into a smile,
His eyes curl up in imitation warmth.
Suddenly life is the dearest thing, and those around him
Dearer still, for this poor tortured man.

What is the question I could ask,
That he might ask himself
And find an answer he could use
To find some goodness in this life that he has left?

Doctor, have you thought about
Who it is you need to forgive?