On the Subject of Doctors

On the Subject of Doctors

By James Tate

I like to see doctors cough. What kind of human being would grab all your money just when you’re down? I’m not saying they enjoy this: “Sorry, Mr. Rodriguez, that’s it, no hope! You might as well hand over your wallet.” Hell no, they’d rather be playing golf and swapping jokes about our feet.

Some of them smoke marijuana and are alcoholics, and their moral turpitude is famous: who gets to see most sex organs in the world? Not poets. With the hours they keep they need drugs more than anyone. Germ city, there’s no hope looking down those fire-engine throats. They’re bound to get sick themselves sometime; and I happen to be there myself in a high fever taking my plastic medicine seriously with the doctors, who are dying.

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