The White Medical Man On The 4th Of July

The White Medical Man is immaculate
as he waits on the curbstone before your house.
He is adorned in form-fitting T
& spotless shorts.
His Sketchers match the enamel white socks,
drawn up along toned calf.
He is ripped chest & abs,
his nipples poke soft cloth.
And let there be no mistake,
he is crew cut & buzz cut & high 'n tight.
He is waxed & shaved by a sextet of
coordinated stainless steel.
He is basking in the sun,
his odor the musk of car commercials
and Maxim cologne samples
and the handsome golf caddy
who winks at your oh-so-hot cousin, Sheilah.
And for this record, bucko--
He eats his eggs RAW!
With gobs of chicklet DNA,
swirling in his dish like
bloody melted ice cream

This man
This giant of gents
holds a perfect clipboard,
a metal shiny rectangle...
no doubt lightweight
no doubt as fresh as a mirror.
He has his records
and he checks your address,
cracking the lovely tinfoil perfect binder
unblemished by mosquito viscera
or snot
or even fingerprints.
He scrutinizes your mailbox
and condones the housepaint
in his stern, silent way.

Now he's striding down your driveway,
round back to the pool.
Deftly navigating the parked Hummy's & jeeps.
Not swatted by car antenna
or beseiged by radio wave.
He moves deftly, with purpose & pinpoint accuracy.

Don't let him find you,
you in your pool with your Heineken beer bottle,
your flabby shoulders & back already burnt...
Your loud friends yelping & crashing around you,
distending the waters
splashing like musket balls into sloppy clear tar.
Your wife somewhere inside,
up in her room confering w/ dear lovely Sheilah.
Dishing the dirt, as it were.
How you didn't do this.
How you let the bicycle chain rust.
Or didn't get the Taurus inspected in time.
Or were conveniantly absent
during the night before the Fourth parade...
while she had to whip up the potato salad
(awful by the way, the mayonaise spoiled).
Oh dear wifey will put on quite the show,
drunk on her apple martini & attention.

But focus focus focus
wipe the weed from your teeth
blink the black-out back.
Because there he is...
the man who could eat brick
& spit mortar.
The doctorate of your soul,
the appraiser of your sloth & easy carefree ways.
Can you hide from him,
duck underwater
or slip beneath the innertube?
Alas-- no.
He has his sights on you
as he passes the kiddie slide
and the puddle of summer afternoon vomit,
and your fun frantic friends.
Somewhere the neighbor's dog yodels
and the town siren cries.
There is a distant thunder & warning of hail,
as the man squats down beside poolside.
He re-opens his binder
and looks you in the drunken smile.

There will be hell to pay for all this.
The mortgage shot.
The kids all sick.
The demotion at work on Monday.
The increased chasm 'tween you & your wife,
your eventual infidelity w/ a certain relative.
Your hair loss (well, the rest of it anyway).
The gut.
The late night sleepbaking.
The ant problem.
Good God...
why did it have to start today?

But The White Medical Man is all business,
he reads your diagnosis in a voice
like a volunteer softball coach.
He doesn't pull punches,
yet he doesn't exactly rally either.
Only you can hear,
no one else cares.
Is it Stan who actually slaps him on the back
en route to the rotisserie?
Ha Ha Aww Shucks.
But you are now ice cold,
the sweaty taste of last night's meatloaf
in your throat.
Do you plead? Do you connive?
I'm too young. I still have my promise.
I stick to the track.
I adhere to the longview.
I'm doing my best.

Not enough, he says.
You are not me.
You never will be.

And is that a stethoscope that hangs
'round his throat & chiseled Adam's apple?
Is that a prescription he signs in Roman numerals
& sanskript?
Does he take your pulse?
Have you cough?
And when debacherous, raving drunk Stan returns
from his hot dogs & babyback ribs...
is that blood he pees into the pool?