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Surgery

Just back from the surgery

(at least it’s ‘the’ surgery, not

cold-steel ‘surgery’…)

Surgery. Well-named.

Surges of fear, apprehension,

remorse, injustice, you name it.

On second thoughts, don’t bother.

The reception room’s OK though.

The counter staff are always ready for

a laugh, a smile, a bit of banter.

Today, it’s ‘Do you mind being video’d?

It’s a training video. If that’s OK, would you sign

now, and again afterwards? ’

Cue for joker: you should have warned me,

I’d have gone to Make-Up first, and I only give my signature

for charity these days…send the fee to my agent

and next time my people will talk to your people

about the Pers. App….

but they stopped listening halfway.

Then the surgery… it’s like a scene

From Malice in Blunderland: as I enter,

I shrink, am diminished to

a slithery list on her computer screen;

judgment day records, and doomful events of personal life

now mere one-liners..

a case-history with the added social disadvantage,

sorry, negatively endowed, of

having a face and body..

Look for the camera, natch -

always ready to falsify my life

for no-one who might care.

Damn, it's behind me;

looks like truthday here.

Spare you the details

in case you tell me worse.. so

Exit Dwarf, as Shakespeare would have penned it.

You could have surfboarded on the final surge

of peripheral dismissed humanity;

too mean now, to say goodbye

to the deception staff.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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