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Oct 2018
I met several doctors who I made a trust,
With care they spoke with a calming tone,
A human mind can only honour a doctors grace & will
So in verse I speak of still, beloved doctors as fellow-fearing men:

A hand in need, make you a friend indeed, or not,
He walks in the room and sits with you, then
You ramble on too many gawping lines of Apollo
But gentle as a musk-shadow, he listens still

Next to you is your mother,
Who speaks lowly, bows her head to her child’s
Baffling monster-lines as flowery gid nearly
Chokes you to a slight dizzy nuzz.

The doctor's tired but nowhere else
Can your delirium be talked about, it’s a sign
The times of medicine, the wanton times, perplexity on your face
Can ring more information to him that your words

You speak softly of your stupid butting voices
That nags you when you sleep,
That your temperate sighs just as constant,
You hope the doctor puts you to sleep.

You talk about the Swedish sailor you write to
With regards to the young boy’s permission,
He never seems worry about a thing,
It’s your only friend perhaps

And the cruellest stormy month won’t help
With the raging episode of a seventeen-year-old
You’re suddenly tired, and the doctor bids an increase
Of your sombre tix to more milligrams, more dulled yonder

What doctors learn to find in your unstable state,
An array of some positive meaning,
That doctors do, what do they must go from
Person to person, exchanging notes of you, with you

That their tiresome intellects don’t stir their patience,
Few patients greet them in desperation, busy men and women who
In the span of day, practise and train their hearts
To be these masters of people’s happiness.
Angela Liyanto
Written by
Angela Liyanto  F/Sydney
   Salmabanu Hatim
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