Merciless

Listen, she is merciless as a Saracen.

My poor heart jumps for its den at the sight of her,
leaving me a little breathless,
wobbly, tongue-tied, what a mess.

'Scuse me Miss, what lovely teeth you have,
pretty maids all in a row,
the better to slay me with.
Her voice is cream to the cat, I'll fall off the fence.
dazzled and stupid, upside down on the ground.

She wears tortoiseshell glasses,
she's a rocket scientist distant as Mars
because I am shy, uncertain, starstruck, clumsy,
knocked over by the fragrance she wears,
gone from austere bookworm 
to clueless spaz
with no escape except into the stacks to recover.

Like a ninny I return to the shrine,
her reference desk lair
where I hope to inherit a word or a smile
to check out and take home and keep
like an overdue volume.
That's when I'll go back
and say to my librarian crush,
"Hi, I'm your fool, can you help me?" 
And hope, like an idiot, that she can.
________

for Skylover's word list.

Portrait of A.

She was an actress.
She ran for office.
She married the owner of the local baseball team.

In the winter she walks her yellow dog,
wearing a watch cap and pea coat.
There are curls at the edge of the cap.
She wears glasses.

In the spring she clears the gardens,
plants seeds,
hums.

I would like to buy her a wide-brimmed hat for summer.
A journal for her notices.
A gazebo made entirely out of election signs.
A bobble-head of her favorite player.

Instead, I deliver her mail,
slipping letters carefully into the slot
with a sigh.
______

eff you?

This would so be me.

But it's Laurel Coppock, whom you may recognize from her Toyota commercials. 

Doctors

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,
her staff,
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.
But still,

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.