A Short Procedure
The doctor asks how I feel. I explain that I do,
and too much with fluency.
“I am destructively verbal and my proclivities have
taken me into the obscure,” I say, disordered, “I seem
to have acquired an instructed sense of terminology,
and my thoughts, of late both splendid and elaborate,
seem only to be sketched in accuracy.”
“I see. It's getting worse,” the doctor says.
I nod, weak; my compatriots do not know my talk.
When I speak, they hear but frowny words.
“Go ahead and open up,” he advises. I do as asked.
The tongue depressor holds a woody hint of spearmint.
“There it is, hold on,” he mumbles.
The doctor peers in, his nose nearly between my teeth.
He acquires his forceps slowly, but without looking,
from a well-organized tray beside me.
“This might pinch a bit,” he admits.
There is a sharp sting at the back of my throat.
I wince and struggle not to gag.
He jerks his arm back and evenly smiles,
pleased with his performance as the tool is retracted.
The doctor holds the forceps up, showing me.
He has captured a small, ruffled bird in the prongs.
“Vocabularia Fringillidae,” he says, “A word finch.
Uncommon for this region.”
I grunt and taste blood, breathe through my nostrils.
“They perch near the larynx,” he says, admiring the bird,
“And they're invasive but, luckily, not parasitic.”
I swallow, hopeful. I am not certain I know
what a larynx is. This is a good sign.
“It'll be sore for a day or two, but you'll recover.
In the meantime, let's try some speech,” he pressures,
lowering the forceps and finch into a beaker of alcohol.
He holds the bird just under, causing it to slowly drown.
This looks like an extended yawn.
"Go on, talk a bit," he pushes.
“Um, a cloud. Tree. Grandma. Horses,” I say.
“Oh, better! That little guy probably rooted in you
some time ago. That's why you were having trouble
being understood. Now, just to be certain,
go ahead and describe... oh, let's say… a sunset.”
“Orange sunset,” I manage.
“That's excellent, and very accountable. How do you feel?”
I scan about in my mind, searching for how I feel.
My blood carries a thunder I cannot describe.
“I feel okay, I guess.” The doctor pats my shoulder.
“And now you'll think that way, too. I look forward
to your next book.”
He sends me toward reception, then. Stuff is better.
I am better. I exit the doctor place, simple, and all good,
a man with many thoughts