I can see the white scarf
Swing over her shoulder
And the practiced flick
By her small hand.
Nothing has changed.
She will go back
To the house
With the winter tinsel,
And in the quiet of the night
She will wait for him.
It is the same.
She hears the door,
And the heavy steps
Come closer in the dark,
And his voice,
Thick with glasses emptied
At the corner bar.
Under her scarf
Last night's marks have gone.
She turns and smiles,
I'll be okay, doc.
Thanks as always.
Posts
5 comments:
One of those classic cases in medicine where the treatment is more art than science, and one in which a a sympathetic ear trumps a prescription. Too bad that medical education rarely teaches this type of therapy, and that insurance companies inadequately compensate for the time involved in this well rounded approach to healing.
Well put, GR. It is a heartbreaking case.
I wish such things didn't happen in our world...
One perfect image, perfect progression of thought through the lines. Powerful poem.
Very sad for your patient. Glad you offer her what care she will accept. Best wishes to you both.
Wow! I really love your poem. It's just sad that this is a common reality among battered women. :(
Post a Comment