Occupado Forever

A bleary-eyed doctor with eyes

that never sleep, is honored

with retirement gifts of a gold

stethoscope, and a building

named after him.

He leaves for a vacation in Bangkok

to enjoy the great sweetness

of a threesome with nymphettes,

who know everything there is to know

about assuaging loneliness.

He’s a loner. His heart never got attached

to anyone. Growing up in Wyandotte,

he ran from ruffians, who taunted him

as a Jew-boy, Christ-killing kike.

Instead of hitting back, he hit the books

like a Talmudic student, earning a place

for himself at Harvard Medical School.

He endures frequent chest pains,

esophageal reflux, —he assumes.

After swallowing a few Tums,

he seats himself on the toilet,

even though his tightened chest

doesn’t feel right, a complaint

he often heard from patients

suffering myocardial infarcts.

In a paroxysm of atrial fibrillation,

he collapses. He carrys lots of cash,

but no life-saving nitroglycerine.

He grunts for a breath and gropes

for a fading pulse, but muffled cries

for a defibrillator go unheeded

due to the droning engine,

and witty banter of passengers

waiting at the occupado door.

He thinks to himself:

“A doctor who has himself for a patient,

has a fool for a patient.”