Not much money

His writing starts with noisy breaths.
His eyes are closed, his jaw relaxed,
His body stilling for a sec.
He opens to a gentle gaze,
And scribbles in a practised hand
The bullet points of his advice.

Unlike the other doctors here,
He seems unhurried, strangely still,
Though like the other doctors here,
He visits dozens patients too.

The nurses tell me he has seen,
By far, the most demises.
“His Speshal-tea is death,” one says.
Another slaps her wrist, corrects,
“He deals with palliative care.”
“There’s not much money in that one,”
The former giggles through her mask.

I see him talking to a man
Who has been shouting all day long –
His wife is still in cancer ward,
In far more pain than she can bear.
The doctor stands unflappable,
And somehow it’s contagious:
The raving man’s behaving now.

If ever things get even worse,
I’d want this man to talk to Mom.

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