Walking their rounds,
Stopping to scribble on steno pads,
The stethoscopes stropping and whetting their eager minds
Are perfect trim for the white coats.
The wounded and ailing are lying dormant in mechanical beds
Tubes embracing their veins are curious divers exploring sunken ships,
that lie, half destroyed, yearning for another chance at life.
Later with scalpels the white coats will carve their way in
With ultra-precision and exactitude they will remove the
malignant tumorous tissue, or perhaps, instead they will shrink it
with chemical warfare. Once in, be it with scalpels or Magnetic Resonance Imaging,
They look around, exploring the evidence of a possible metastasis.
Mere mortals lie awaiting inspection. Dreaming of altered diagnoses.
White coats demarcate the boundaries of the tumors and circumscribe the