Dear old Doctor that give truckers their speed,
Dear new Doctor that give mothers their weed.
We need an ear.
We need our doctors to listen
–Not hear.
Dear old Doctors that stood high in their pulpit,
Spouting, pushing words like as if it were the Gita, in Sanskrit.
Your days of verbal scripts and paper scripts are done.
Your days of chiding with resentment are none.
Dear new Doctors that roll around in new stools,
Typing madly sadly, checking boxes for corporate ghouls.
Your line is too long and they can’t even see you,
It’s the end of you and you can’t even see you.
We the sick and we the not so sick,
We know too much, now.
We the sick and we the not so sick,
We know not enough, now.
We need a sieve, a strainer, a mesh,
To separate out the electronic goo.
We need an ear.
We need our doctors to listen
–Not hear.
We need to adhere,
–to something, we know not what.
We swapped potions for pills,
And now back to potions once more.
Dear old Doctors that gave sickness a bleed,
Dear new doctors that cut up and leave.
We need an ear.
We need our doctors to listen
–Not hear.
