If I Was a Doctor

If I was a doctor, I would have little to say.
I would get up in the morning, and go to bed end day.
I would stare at my patients, solemn and grey.
Dreaming of people, not lying in graves.

I would think of the deaths, and think of my tools.
I would think of my white coat, and think of the rules.
I would hang up my heart, and put on my scrubs.
I would splash on cold water, and snap on my gloves.

If I was a doctor, I would cut open human beings.
I would soak myself in blood, and hold their hearts beating.
I would go in more deeply than any lover could.
I could steal your heart, but steal it for good.

If I was a doctor, I would have more anger than not.
I would tire over people, and try to play God.
I would sigh for the nurses, sigh for the grieving.
And after I called it, continue my breathing.

If I was a doctor, I would remind myself of a machine.
A pale little robot, practicing techniques.
I would think of my hands, and think of my eyes.
So human in nature, yet never shaking and never cry.

I would think of the woods, and think of the trees.
I would think of mountains, and all living things.
I would look up to heaven, or whatever is above my head.
And say, “Why so quiet? Your people are dead.”