In these days a faint tonsure celebrates my head
The cold has numbed my bones
The children in the streets call me "Pops"
The next generation asks if I am OK
I guess it is the way I move
I leave a trail of footsteps and the mark of a cane
I am in trouble with a doctor
He is so young
I cannot abide his advice
I sit on an stainless steel exam table
A paper sheet to cover my exposed parts
I feel the coldness of his stethoscope on my chest
I inhale and exhale while he listens to my lungs
I try to stay still while he pokes me
I hope that my knee will jump
To the bang by his little hammer
I try to read what he has written on my chart
I try to understand his jargon
I try to read the prescriptions he gives me
I do not want to get any the side effects
I wonder which is worse
My illness or them
I do not want to know how much time I have to live
I do not want to slow down
I want to eat anything and as much as I want
I want to smoke a pack a day
I want to stay up all night
I want to drink anything I want
I want to get a second opinion
I want to get as opinions as it takes to get what I want
I fear confirmation of the first diagnoses
I know that pain and wisdom are twins
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