Dr. Demerton diverges from strict protocol,
taking out his ink pen and prescribing trephining
for a patient complaining of an itchy scalp.
How many ear aches can one man stand to encounter
before his mind tears into ragged strips,
like a wet napkin?
How many common colds can he diagnose before wishing to
press each stuffy head down into a basin full of water
until all complaints subside?
Next door, Dr. Baynedda cures all with a toss of her hair,
or a sultry glance above her bookish eyeglasses.
White canes and old wheelchairs accumulate outside by the dumpster,
while their owners cartwheel home
or read eye charts placed in the next county.
When Dr. Baynedda walks in, she dispenses cures from the pockets of her immaculate white coat,
and nothing hurts, ever, except the sharp pangs of desire
felt by her patients,
and even by people in far away countries at the simple mention of her name.
Dr. Demerton feels eclipsed, and a little bit depressed,
watching the misery which teems in his waiting room,
be it ever so common;
be it ever so dull.
He strays further and further from standardized practice,
incorporating voodoo, the herb smoke, and
non HMO approved pentagrams into his treatments.
everyone prefers Dr. Baynedda.
One visit, and soft white-feathered wings emerge from their once-slumped shoulders.
One smile from her, and sluggish hearts race,
twisted, useless limbs become supple and strong,
and the dead--yes, the dead!--rise, just to fall at her feet in adoration.
Dr. Demerton gives up practice, becomes a busker in the subway,
with a little fez-wearing monkey he rescued from a lab
by holding the director and his staff at bazooka point.
And Dr. Baynedda?
She wears the uniform of mercy,
the colorful costume of genuine radiance,
and all who see her, all who seek her,
become pilgrims on a holy journey
into Yes Sugar Yes.
for my own Fireblossom Friday prompt, "I Love A Man (Or Woman!) In Uniform". I think white lab coats count.