Sitting at the Doctor’s Surgery

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery

I’m sitting at the generic magnolia doctor’s surgery
Waiting to tell her my worries and thoughts
Because I am sick, surely soon I’ll face death
The Grim Reaper will be snogging away my last breath
And the demons and angels will be playing crosses and noughts
With the discount passport to a paradise Heaven I have bought
from a dodgy offer on Groupon

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery
Watching the receptionist with her graces and airs
The façade of the NHS
the administrative face that usually says ‘I don’t particularly care’
Watching the faces, the faces, the faces
The hues, the sizes, the myriad races
Who knows why they’re here, how they’re sick, who’s a dick
Who’s a racist, who acts like a nationalist prick
Yet you still see some English
Resentment seeping through their red and white bones
Wishing the migrants were fucked off back to their native homes.

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery
when my number comes up on the screen
I feel like I’ve won the lottery
I float through the double doors like a teenager having a wet dream
And its double jackpot with my doctor of choice
With her medical degree and her authoritative voice
I don’t know why, but I have no faith in doctors of the male gender
Why do the ladies always seem more knowledgeable and tender?
And is there a ‘Me Too’ movement in the medical world?
Or is it not time yet?
Has the notion of medical sexual abuse not yet unfurled?

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery
Lying on the ‘I’m vulnerable’ examination table
The only hands that have roamed my flesh in eight long years
Are working their magic, seeing if my heart is stable
Hands of middle age that fought for their equality
Hands of clever knowledge that have equal power on the Adam and Eve tree
Hands that prove that women can, and women can, and women can
And women can without a man
Winning races, blasting through misogynist traces
An army of female, heroine faces
I salute.

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery
Collecting my prescription
I don’t pay as I’m diabetic and that’s my benediction
How many people go without
Their madness meds, their wellness meds
The bones of their existence meds
Through poverty and hardship
As this country is in its austerity grip?
And i ponder over how many mentally ill
Are roaming the cities, crazy for want of an antipsychotic pill
And how many are living on the edge of a depression knife
And how many will take their life?
How many?

I’m sitting at the doctor’s surgery
Wondering how long will this go on?
How long will the NHS be a free commodity?
How long will it be before Boris starts singing Donald Trump’s song?
Our national treasure sacrificed through money and greed
By those that don’t give a shit for the proles who have greatest need
Let us never see the day.
Let us pray
Let us pray

©2019 Sarah Drury

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