He couldn’t pass his high-school tests,
But now the doctors lean on him
To figure out the spots on scans
That do not fit the pigeonholes
Their textbooks, journals, meets define.

Officially, he runs machines
That diagnose the heart and brain.
But thirty years of reading scans
And following the patients’ health
Has given him a finger-feel
For what the doctors don’t detect.

The doctors hate him to their bones,
Except the ones who’re still secure.
They hate his reputation, yes,
His grip on union reps as well,
But what they hate the most in him
Is that he gives them no excuse
To tell on him, to throw him out,
To discipline his acts somehow.
He’s far too clever for them all.

Or so the man would like me think
At 4am, when no one else
Would stop to share a word with him.

(He did, however, find a spot
The doctors missed in our reports.
They brushed it off as just a fluke.)

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