This rough-hewn man,
With leather hands,
Back is bent,
Almost spent.
His scars,
His chart,
His X-ray full of lead,
Silent testimony,
To the violence and grief of his life,
On the street.
He looks at me with firm belief,
That I will make him well,
But no iatric novice,
Could brook his brand of hell.
Nor cure the sundry aches and ills.
That broke this wildest warrior’s will.
Paula Lyons, MD
1/28/86