Will you miss the stink of sweat, tears, blood, or formalin?
Will you buy paintings of the cerebrum, cushions shaped like an anatomical heart?
Will you hear in the thud of your son’s bassline, a tachycardia, a lack of sinus rhythm?
Will your eyes strip strangers, peel back skin, marvel at the flesh knot, chalk bone beneath?
Will you diagnose bus passengers from a library of pathologies? Confer with the driver,
 improvise a ward round at each stop.
Will you move through days, languid as shifting sunlight in a vacant room?
Will you set dust motes spinning, multitudes of small, pointless enchantment?


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