Poetry
HEIR TOHIPPOCRATES My father rises from cold-water nothing To tend the kidneys of stars. In nephrons And glomeruli, he discovers silver vessels, Mines gold veins. One year he scores A transplant for the governor, whose wife Calls in the nervous dawn to talk Creatinine and cyclosporine levels. Gourmet baskets crowd the kitchen, Signed by billionaires and Olympians. A-list celebrities call him “Doc.” A limousine, long as a jumbo jet, Arrives in the darkness to speed My old man to Washington. I will come along, he cautions His joyless, ear-pieced escorts: Mom is in labor with my sister. What choice do these men have? The doc, like Mighty Oz, has spoken. I must wait in the antechamber, Surrounded by high-backed chairs, Under portraits of world leaders, Chaperoned by a wizened butler And a buxom, bright-eyed agent. They claim , she whispers, over my drowsy head , That he’s saved the Pope and Queen Elizabeth . Her companion shrugs, chuckles. The queen’s valet is still a valet , he says. I curse his words—but my father more.
ASSEMBLING THE EXERCYCLE
Depicted on the box in pristine gleam, A resplendent, full-armored steed, Alluring as Sinon’s gift to the Trojans: I feel ten pounds lighter just admiring The steel bolts that will lock together, Harmonized as enzyme and substrate. A blueprint of dashes steers me forward, Like a pilgrim pursuing the one true path— Only that path, it turns out, requires a Size-three Phillips-head screwdriver, And using a size-zero for a substitute Gnaws off the drives. Moreover, four Pillow blocks and two flange bearings Connect on the diagram, while the bag Contains three of each, and no sane Human being could distinguish a left Bearing cup from her right companion. Sweat eats its way through my shirt, Trickles down my flank. On a trial Run, the front wheel emits a wheezing Sound—like an untreated asthmatic— Followed by a dull moan that recalls Tortured Puritans beneath pressing boards. Nameless, unclaimed pieces jangle inside My pockets, reminding me that I will not Exert myself so vigorously again until, Years hence, in a burst of spring cleaning, I dust the damn machine with a damp cloth And haul its treacherous corpse to the curb. From The Cynic in Extremis © Jacob M. Appel, 2018. Used by permission of Able Muse Press. -- Jacob M. Appel is the author of three literary novels, seven short story collections, an essay collection, a cozy mystery, a thriller and a volume of poetry. His stories have been short-listed for the O. Henry Award, Best American Short Stories, Best American Nonrequired Reading, and the Pushcart Prize anthology. Jacob is currently an Assistant Professor of Psychiatry and Medical Education at the Mount Sinai School of Medicine, where he is Director of Ethics Education in Psychiatry.
122 WESTONMAGAZINEGROUP.COM
Made with FlippingBook - Online magazine maker