As I lay her, wanting to die
I see within my mind’s eye
There my car upon the rack
There stands the mechanic with his jack
Does it only require a change of oil
Or will it’s needs lead to greater toil
I wonder if it’s serious
Or, will the small maintenance charge make me delirious
When I happily realize, i
I’s not too bad for a car that size

Then I’m jolted back to the moment at hand
It’s not really a mechanic in command
But rather, a doctor, highly skilled
Who’ll check me again to renew’ the pill’

With posterior bare and legs propped high
I find nowhere at all to rest my eyes
The bandaide box upon the wall
I wonder, do they ever fall?
The acoustic tile overhead
After seemingly hours, he comes in, oh dread

With heels planted in the stirrups
My nerves suddenly give way, oh for the hiccups
My bottom half above my head
I wonder, did my face turn red?
As he implants that damn cold spectrum
My eyes automatically enlarge, as I peak up at him

OH! I know he’s doing his job, as we all must do
But if he could do it with me removed
Just as the mechanic works alone
Then informs me he’s done by telephone!!

1974

[Note of 3/29/21: I actually wrote most of this poem in the doctor’s
office. Dr. Paul Waters, M.D. was my doctor in Stockton, California. I
sent him a copy of it when it was complete. The next visit he shared the
fact that he’s sent it to the medical journal that he subscribed to,
according to memory they published it; but I never actually saw it in
print. I’m speaking here from memory and ego, lol.

The truth is, the poem was a projection of what I believe, we as women,
experienced during these sessions. I’m not sure it bothered me at all,
doctor Waters was very professional and as an empath he never made me
uncomfortable.

[Note 3/29/21: Typed this one from memory. . . some events have a lasting
effect, lol. I dated it 1974, it was when I first started writing.