Copyright 2023 James C Horner
For years you peered into my heart,
Doctor J. My valve began to gurgle.
On uphill climbs my chest would feel a dart.
“It’s time” you said. “No innocent burble.”
On Round Two, Doctor M and M, you strapped
my arm to table. Good drugs. No frazzle!
With a teensy camera, Dr. M and M, you mapped
that pesky valve. Fantastic Voyage!
Raquel Welch was there! Tripping, I was rapt.
Doctor B, I craved some Dutch courage
for your two options—incision or groin.
I pointed down: you’ll steer through that passage.
Under blazing LED lights, you’ll join
my surgical battle, Doctor A, with a twist
of metered Happy Juice. (This must cost some serious coin.)
It was all good. I didn’t care which wrist
you jabbed, Doctor A, I was in the Twilight Zone.
Kind but professional, that’s the gist.
What would a poem be without a moan?
Doctor C, not your fault my heart lags.
You have my best interest at heart. (Groan!)
No pacemaker, no electrical snags.
Doctors, I love y’all! Time to pack my bags.