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.