Black in Whiteface Black
A contemporary poem
We had a family doctor
– called Merrick — who came round
whenever one of us was sick,
and somehow always
made us well again.
That’s medicine at its best.
He was ageless, and James Bond handsome
in his expensive suits, always carrying
a shiny black leather medical bag,
and always smelling strongly of some kind of
medical disinfectant, which made him
seem bracingly accomplished.
And his manner was just right too:
no small talk, just swift diagnoses
and clipped instructions;
and his pronouncements, like
those of our dentist and our vet,
were known to be infallible.
And Merrick always seemed to be
reassuringly ‘nearby’, and
would call round that very day
whenever we asked
him to.
Maybe the James Bond junk
was a clue. He’s sure to be
long dead of old age by now, but I don’t
know that for sure…
