No Yanks

I had a patient
No – he had a doctor.
I knew his syndrome;
He knew nothing

of limitations.

He had a lesion
A knot of poison and pain
A contemptuous little brat inside of him
Laughing at an old soldier’s stupid courage.

Smiling stupid
Until I came.
But so slow!
Every condemning detail I dropped sat inert,
Like an unexploded shell in the quiet of this

annoying man’s faith.

No Yanks were coming.
Only me.

For a second, his grin faltered.
It returned, no longer absurd.
Its reason made my gut unravel.
My mind became incontinent;
It was only seconds away now.

I was going to have a patient.


Leo Weinstein, Chicago, Class of 1987

Originally published in Vol. I: 1985