WHEN MY DOCTOR BECAME MY PATIENT

We both grew up in an anti-Semitic neighborhood,
called Polack Alley, home of German-American
Nazi Bundists, who attacked kids who looked Jewish.
My doctor kept his patient waiting for hours
as we argued about Bolshevism versus Trotskyism.
I was his Sherlock, and he was my Dr. Watson.
Together we often had extended conversation
about the calumny of the Pharma industry,
and the endless greed of his medical colleagues.
He was beside himself when his wife left him
for another woman; It precipitated a heart attack.
Every time I consulted him for my exam,
I took his psychological temperature.
He drew my blood to send to a lab,
and stethoscoped me up and down
while drenching my shoulders with tears.
He had no trouble checking my pulse
and listening to me squirm as he probed
my prostate in my yearly rectal exam.
For over 3 decades I kept him sane and,
he kept me alive with his mantra, one size doesn’t fit all.
He interpreted pharma’s dictates with a grain of salt.
I analyzed his recurring dreams,
and convinced him to get off anti-depressants
and on to the practice of meditation.
I advised him to take up Yoga.
He fell madly in love with his Yoga teacher—
married her, and moved to Kathmandu.
He returned all the invoices I paid,
for professional services, marked
null and void.