I'm going to write a poem about the epididymal cyst excision.
No way, poems should be about flowers, cute landscapes and fathers on the bog.
I don't care. I was thinking about it waiting for the anaesthetic. Great images came to mind.
Forget it. It certainly won't win the Bard of Swords competition. (Swords/blades, get it?)
There's not many poems about male medicine procedures.
No wonder. We are men after all! Operations just part of what happens.
Procedures not operations. There are some hospital poems here.
Does it matter?
In surgery like poetry words are vital. The right word in the right place.
A stitch in time. Ha Ha.
Stop! This will be a serious reflection on the invasion of private parts and . . .
They'll think it was written by a woman!
. . . and the terror of the strange lump.
You're straying across gender boundaries.
I was in East Coker during the summer. Maybe bring in a reference to those great Eliot lines :
The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Ouch! Easy with the italics, you're confusing me.
Perhaps a bit of humour. Surgeon was a Fitz, one of the Normans, maybe a reference to their skill with blades.
I can't stop laughing. So how is the distempered part?
Fine. Recovering. doesn't affect the brain.
A few days complete rest?
You must be joking. I've a book to finish. Well actually it's finished, just too long.
Ah some excising needed! Wield the scalpel.
I was afraid to ask earlier but what exactly is . . .