Haste makes speed, the doctor taunts as he enters
the operating room, gowned, gloved hands scrubbed,
his dark eyes suggesting a grin beneath his mask.

Light laughter mingles with the scent of soap,
of sterilizing solutions, of warm summer air.
We continue at our set pace to be certain of accuracy:

the packs of instruments, drapes, towels sponges,
basins, needles and threads, orderly layout.
Bones are his specialty, his youngish stature belying

his astuteness, his  touch. Sometimes he scrubs
to assist with brains when head trauma
from the Pacific is heavy.

Haste makes speed, he teases again, and we are ready.
Working with two neurologists, he will settle the bones,
then the neurologists will have a go at the nerves

to search and repair with frequent glances at the huge
volume of Gray’s Anatomy and muttered discussions.
Young fellows, still learning, they perform remarkably well.

I treated this soldier with the mangled leg on the Septic
Surgical Ward, cleaning and dressing his wounds,
flinching as I dabbed swabs at angry tissue,

tweezed out bits of shrapnel. Our eyes meet.
Though he doesn’t recognize me in scrub clothes,
I hope he senses my smile just before he is given to sleep.

Gotcha, the doctor exhales as I tap a chisel
onto his requesting palm, keen eyes
intent on the field of flesh and bone.

© 2007 by Doris Bergstrom. All rights reserved.