Published on: 1/23/2016
Critical Care

Because of shoes, one's feet grow pale and soft,
And as a consequence I had to visit
The doctor. Down the hall a patient coughed,
Among the worst I'd ever heard. What is it?

I thought. A hairball? Hacking up three packs
A day? An outbreak of tuberculosis?
As minutes passed, I started to relax,
Too sleepy to complete my diagnosis....

When I awoke, the doctor had arrived.
Apparently the patient two doors down
Had overcome his crisis and survived.
I raised my legs and watched the doctor frown

While he looked closely at my blistered feet.
"Your insteps have sustained a nasty burn
From sun; your soles resemble roasted meat.
You city people never seem to learn,"

He said. I'd spent the weekend at the beach,
The hottest, brightest days so far this summer-—
My first time out. Physicians love to preach,
Their chance to let a patient know he's dumber

Than they are. I was pissed. My feet were sore,
But when the doctor searched a nearby shelf
For soothing salve, I hobbled out the door
And shouted back, "Physician, heal thyself!"

Because of shoes, our feet grow soft and pale,
But everything depends on where they take us.
I'd rather walk through hell than go to jail
For ordering a therapeutic fracas.