The Blind Chiropractor - by A.E. Plastic

Dr.Staisier turns to me,
as if lassoed out of the blue;
then, stubbly and purposive,
he taps out my particulars
on a laptop which dutifully 
regurgitates them
in greyed-out tones:
age 58, married,
sedentary, non-smoker,
academic, no medication
except for Sertraline.

The consulting room
is devoutly anhedonistic,
the only mitigation
an ormolu clock
screwed ostentatiously
to the mantelpiece
(is the good doctor on his guard
against light-fingered patients?).

At his bidding,
I prostrate myself
on a theatre-of-war trestle
and his hands reach out 
to that obliterated communion 
of muscles, bones, nerves
ribs, sinews and cartilage.

Man was designed to crawl
not sit he tells me
holding up a plastic spine
to prove the point,
and prescribes daily
acts of contortion
sure to straighten me out

I surrender my platinum card
to the blonde cashier
taking in her evacuated smile
and flesh infinitely silkier
than I will ever broach again
(it tickles me to imagine
that, inexplicably, Dr. Staisier
has an eye for the ladies).

Comments

[Shari-Lyn McArthur]

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