Poem

This is a cool poem, that came to my in-box today.

"Medicine" by Carolyn Kizer, from Cool, Calm & Collected © Copper Canyon Press Press, 2000.

For W.S., MD

The practice of medicine

Is not what it was

In my grandfather's time.

I remember him telling me

Of weeks that went by

When he would be paid

Only in chickens

Or only in potatoes;

Of treating the families

Of striking miners

In Montrose or Telluride

Who could not pay at all;

Of delivering babies

(A total of twenty)

For a tribe of dirt farmers

Who paid one new-laid egg

Or a cup of springwater:

After sweating a breech birth

And twins at that,

At five in the morning

It was mighty good water.

When, fifty years later,

He came back to the mountains

Middle-aged babies

Ran up in the street

Crying, Doc! Doc! eyes streaming,

Tried to kiss his old hands.

No, the practice of medicine

Is not what it was,

But it has its moments:

That morning in surgery

I regained consciousness

A little too early

And found the doctor

Kissing my hand,

Whispering, whispering

It's all right darling,

You're going to live.