We’ve been probed, CT’d and MRI’d,
Have suprapubic midline tatoos,
And golden marker seeds inside
To show gamma ray binocular eyes
Where to send high energy rays
to the place where cancer lies
awaiting a deadly dose of Grays.
We arrive, our bladders full,
With a Fleet’s clean sigmoid;
Identified, pastic bracleted, we pull
Off our clothes and try to avoid
More exposure of bare buttox
To watchful target cathodes
waiting in cold whiteness.
We are cheered by nurse and technician
Who treat us like aged newborn babes
And carefully swaddle us in position.
They leave. The machine wakes, and stirs,
To mufflled beats of rap that plays;
It rotates, stops, starts, and whirs
To shoot off focused gamma rays,
Until the prescribed dose is spent;
Then deflates the swaddling wrap,
sighs, and stops, as if content,
and settles down to take a nap.
Our nurse helps us to our feet,
pulls off our wadded sheets,
Then sets it all in order again
For friends of Grays and Fleet’s