the retired surgeon

never go to a doctor
younger than 50 he tells me,

stroking his beard, studying
the ceiling
light
that's flickering.

bulb? he says. I think I need
a new one.

I give him a run down of my last
experience with
the medical industry, he smiles,

shakes his head. butchers, he says.
they're in it for the money now.

take a number, next, next next.
check please.

then he shows me a tiny doll house
he's been working
on for his train set.

he's building a small town around the spiral
of tracks screwed into an enormous
plywood board
in his basement.

it's beautiful. the hours it must
must have taken.
I look at his delicate hands,
the longer precise fingers.

and think about the brains
he must have worked on.