The Doctor's Opinion

He affixes his instruments                                
                                         to my body. 
And he listens in,                        
And he hears sounds,                  
                          sounds which he thinks                                
                                                          he recognizes.                  

                Sounds which seem not                                        
                                                  to disturb him.  

Then he pronounces me                           
                                   in perfect health. 
And he dismisses me                         
                               with the usual                                         

     “Take care of this,              
               and beware of that,                  
                     and you will be alright.”  

But he is wrong.                      
                     Oh, so wrong.     
I will not be alright. 
I cannot be alright. 
I cannot be in perfect health. 
I am sick.                
              I know it.     
I am sick.  

The sounds that he hears                              
                                   inside me,         
    are not as he thinks them,                       
                               perhaps wants them,                                            
                                                           to be. 

They are not                  
                      the thumping                  
                     of my heart.     

     the throbbing         
    of my veins. 
But echoes,                
            ancient echoes,                
            bouncing about                               
                              in a damp                                    
                              and empty