Rounds

My father would take me on his rounds

I was maybe three or four

The practice included the elderly

Chronic cases lying abed

I would study their wrinkles

As they responded to his gentle queries

Or not

I would sit on a footstool in the O.R.

As he stitched up some drunk

Feet cut up like hamburger

From barefoot dancing in broken bottle territory

Anglers with hooks embedded in their scalps

Woodsmen whose axes had slipped

The nurses would keep their eyes on me

Watching for signs of distress

I guess

But I was cool with it

All

Case by case

Then, housecalls

Yes, he did those

Driving fast down country lanes

In sportscars

The MGB took corners fast

From house to house

At some I’d be invited in to sit in the kitchen

Strange immigrants of dubious origin

Funny old ladies in Ma Kettle dresses

Would force me to eat dusty cookies

Petrified into cement

Or so it seemed

Tagging along

Waiting to move to the next mystery

The next round

 

David Trudel  ©  2012

 

 

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1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “Rounds

  1. Nice–great that your Dad took you.

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