Bothersome

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.