Just back from the surgery
(at least it’s ‘the’ surgery, not
cold-steel ‘surgery’…)
Surgery. Well-named.
Surges of fear, apprehension,
remorse, injustice, you name it.
On second thoughts, don’t bother.
The reception room’s OK though.
The counter staff are always ready for
a laugh, a smile, a bit of banter.
Today, it’s ‘Do you mind being video’d?
It’s a training video. If that’s OK, would you sign
now, and again afterwards? ’
Cue for joker: you should have warned me,
I’d have gone to Make-Up first, and I only give my signature
for charity these days…send the fee to my agent
and next time my people will talk to your people
about the Pers. App….
but they stopped listening halfway.
Then the surgery… it’s like a scene
From Malice in Blunderland: as I enter,
I shrink, am diminished to
a slithery list on her computer screen;
judgment day records, and doomful events of personal life
now mere one-liners..
a case-history with the added social disadvantage,
sorry, negatively endowed, of
having a face and body..
Look for the camera, natch -
always ready to falsify my life
for no-one who might care.
Damn, it's behind me;
looks like truthday here.
Spare you the details
in case you tell me worse.. so
Exit Dwarf, as Shakespeare would have penned it.
You could have surfboarded on the final surge
of peripheral dismissed humanity;
too mean now, to say goodbye
to the deception staff.
Michael Shepherd
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/surgery-5/
