Sunday, January 01, 2017


First poem of 2017:

I don't like trauma
I'll tell you why,
All those broken bones
They make me cry,
The busted heads
With swelling brains,
And a myriad
Of other pains.

A lot of trauma victims
Have drug-seeking behavior,
And they are expecting me
To be their savior,
But I am not
That kind of guy,
I can say, No
And let them cry.

Half of these folks
Did stupid crap,
Like spilling hot coffee
Into their lap,
While driving
Their brand new Maserati,
And looking out the window
At some teenage hottie.

Swerved, they did
Into a giant Oak,
Blew up that Maserati
And that's no joke,
Two hundred and fifty
Flying pieces,
Including Billy Bob
And his two nieces,
Going off in
Different directions,
Seat belts still on
But no other protections.

Where once were three
There now is one,
Put back together
With a hot glue gun,
A hodgepodge collection
Of many pieces,
Something from Billy Bob
And both of his nieces.

A Frankenstein creature
An amalgam of parts,
One head, two arms
And three beating hearts,
The rest is a mix
Of tissue and bones,
And inside the head
Two, iPhones.

We call him BillyBobinator
The first hybrid man,
Kind of weird looking
But that was the plan,
When the trauma surgeons
Looked at that box of parts,
Retrieved from the accident
In fits and starts.

He has a little girl's voice
He got that from Trixie,
She was the cutest thing
Looked just like a pixie,
Her sister Madeline
Was a gymnast extraordinaire,
Now, BillyBobinator
Keeps flipping into the air.

He's a handful
That's for sure,
But we're a Trauma Unit
With a guaranteed cure,
Where everyone leaves
Sooner or later,
Including this hybrid

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