Another rhyme. Don’t know what set me off on the medical profession, but no worries, it will pass. I’m sure the memory-scarring tooth-pulling scene from “BBC’s Les Miserables” on Masterpiece didn’t help much. Anyway, enjoy my complaint, in verse. Thank you for coming by to read.
They won’t bother
Checking your weight
When they’re carving up your skin.
A slice here,
A nibble there,
Exposing what’s within.
They won’t bother
Calling to check
If you’re coming or you’re not,
Though they’ll be sure
To send a link,
With a password you’ve forgot.
They won’t bother
To leave a doggone
Message, if they call.
They must assume
You’ve memorized
Their number, code and all.
They won’t bother
To input forms:
They’ll make you fill them out,
And annually.
Inevitably,
It makes you scream and shout.
They won’t bother
To learn your name
Or ask about your kids.
You’re just a unit
Of time, to them,
Of which they must be rid.
They won’t bother to bother:
Much too busy,
Much too cool.
(They golf and
Earn a living,
So much better, than you do.)
They won’t bother
With niceties.
That’s not what they’re about.
A bot-voiced call:
“You’re dying now.”
Keel over.
Over and out.
Copyright 2019 Andrea LeDew
For another complaint about people with less than the requisite amount of compassion, read Bedside Manners for Doctors and Teachers. Also read the flash fiction, Bedside Manner.
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