The Specialist

A Poem by Marshall

The first time I met the Specialist
he shut me up with a bunch of big words
which I never found in any poem. Anywhere.
(So I swore I would break the rules
and write a poem on painkillers. One day)

He had a knack of pressing a rib
and complaining about my foot.
He touched my head
and told me how badly battered my kidneys were.

I marvelled at this transmigration
of ailments from one body part to another.
( but I never dared ask him to spell it,
in case he got it right)
I knew for sure that big sounding sicknesses
always produced hefty bills to pay
the smiling receptionist who took my CreditCard
with nicely painted and sharpened) fingernails
( that she may have used as a weapon)
if the specialist got high on any of his own pills!
( it was only a suspicion)
I have no notes to prove anything.

The Specialist was my friend,
so he said
but I wondered many times why he
never remembered my first name.

The last time I saw the specialist
he was racing down the motorway
with the sharp painted nails lady
and they were both smiling.