General surgery

I PATIENCE

Two legs come off. Another's hip's gone wrong. Across
the ward a chest scar's like a trench.
One's knees are out of joint. The next bed's pneumoniac,
tubed like an astronaut, drowns slowly in his fluids.
It's merciful: he dies in my sleep.
It goes on day and night: repair of souls,
delight of surgeons carving tenderloin;
a fantasy of keeping bodies whole.
Did God mean this? Oh, definitely, yes —
It's hell on earth of course, wages of mortal sins, still
unconfessed, from a hundred centuries ago:
cities, armies, agriculture —
humankind becoming its own vulture.

II OP ART

Joe's chest's a mess. He's got the stitch; cruel
embroidery. A bypass runs through him.
Incised from stem to stern, he feels cut up,
but the surgeon says he'll soon be bouncing back
if he doesn't take it to heart.
Joe's a pain in the neck, but I'll say
this for him: he'snot disheartened yet.
“A stitch in time,” says Joe.