Self-Care
When he’s sad the doctor goes to the hospital,
His hospital, the one where he works
Because that’s where he knows what to do
Even if he isn’t on call and no one needs him now.
Slips in through the side door using his keycard
And unlocks the doors to his office.
There’s no one here to talk to about his sorrow
No one to diagnose disease or render treatment.
This is a mangled form of self care
Barely better than alcoholic numbing.
But here there is purpose
And easily perceived meaning.
He logs on to the computer, opens
His patient list and checks
Labs, xray results, the new names
Of souls he has been asked to see.
Outside the cars on the highway flash
And pulse like the tracings of an ICU monitor
Telling us the city is still alive.
He watches a while longer,
Longer than anyone else would,
Long enough to forget
Why he came here
And then he returns home.
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