as he removes the otoscope.
It’s not just the hammer,
anvil, and stirrup, he says.
It’s the blacksmith, too.
And the dry goods store
with the weasely clerk,
not to mention the saloon
rife with cowboys and
a prostitute with humble
cleavage. And I’m afraid
it’s also the calibrated hearts
in that freezing ten room
hotel, the mayor’s daughter
weeping into well water,
the moon spreading its
anxious light over everything.
In short, Ronald, I’m not
surprised you called
for an appointment today.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
