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Poetry and Medicine
December 19, 2001

Postlude: A House Call

JAMA. 2001;286(23):2915. doi:10.1001/jama.286.23.2915

A smoking filament, indeed
Declines the gambit, slackens speed.
Twelve PM.
The fleshy end of sleeping days.
A hairless dog bays down the hall.
The still clock whispers on the wall
The watchers fed
The servants return to their rooms.
We hear one say,
"I'm glad there are no brooms
To push today."
And upstairs on the bed
Old postage stamps
Remind us of deserted lamps.
A candle on the desk consumes.
The watch above the bed resumes.

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