He affixes his instruments
to my
body.
And he listens in,
attentively.
And he hears sounds,
sounds which he thinks
he recognizes.
Sounds
which seem not
to disturb him.
Then he pronounces me
in perfect
health.
And he dismisses me
with the
usual
reassuring
remarks:
“Take care of
this,
and
beware of that,
and you will be alright.”
But he is wrong.
Oh, so wrong.
I will not be alright.
I cannot be alright.
I cannot be in perfect health.
I am sick.
I know
it.
I am sick.
The sounds that he hears
inside
me,
are not as he
thinks them,
perhaps wants
them,
to be.
They are not
the thumping
of my heart.
Nor
the throbbing
of my veins.
But echoes,
ancient
echoes,
bouncing
about
in a damp
and empty
place.