The smell of chemicals is in the air; The antiseptic fumes assault the nose. The gleaming benches, polished, are left bare. The knives stay neatly placed in perfect rows. I pace the room with stethoscope and lamp, Or pause, and hear the faint, fluorescent hum, And only move so that I do not cramp. And still I wait; and still they do not come. The things I'd do, were I allowed my tools! I know the stitch to mend a broken heart, The gentlest words to best admonish fools. No mortal hurt should be beyond my art! I weep for those whose lives I could not change. I'd make them more than human, rich and strange.