Overhead lights, bright in a white room,
a masked regiment around me
at my command.
In timeless hush, I work:
my steady hand and shining blade
make neat incisions, cast out
tumours like blind, destructive moles.
It’s done. Eyes, above masks, are joyful.
The patient lives.
That was before.
Today, I wear a white coat in a bright room.
Around me, pale unmasked faces,
that have not witnessed war,
ignore my requests.
In harsh, obliterating noise, I work
steadily with shining blade.
My practiced hand
cuts pizzas into segments
that do not bleed.
Richard Fleming
