- © 2007 Canadian Medical Association
Dr. X sits in his home study,
listening to Ella Fitzgerald,
tying flies,
considering cancelling the New England Journal.
Occasionally the intercom buzzes:
Mr. McGuire has lost a thumb in the thresher,
little Beatrice is inconsolable with a sore ear,
Madame Plante has the gout again.
Dr. X triages,
judges best how to spend his time:
two aspirin advice,
or I'll come down and see you.
The intercom is sublime;
no need to answer the door,
just push a button.
The sound is squawky,
and some patients swear
that Dr. X told them to gargle elephants
or to juggle toilet bowls
or, more mysteriously,
to take the train, take the train.
Dr. X heard some strange things too:
that a woman had catbox on her face,
that a child was seething with child,
that a divorcee with compression
needed to till the field.
No wonder what he said back
seemed interplanetary —
take the train, take the train.
But one evening a woman buzzed him,
Brrrrringorrahmarahm,
and said how much she brought her husband,
how they sang ditties and splayed,
how taking the train had solved
their conjugal flight risk,
how dinners now are spent at Erin Village Riviera
and rooftop shouts are whoops,
whoop-te-do's,
and the tax man cometh
for joy.
Dr. X, being an experienced physician,
had no idea who the woman was,
but he knew what to do,
and said you're welcome,
keep taking the train.