On the Island

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.