You are a fixture in the living room—
man reading medical journal—
while the TV stands silent in the den.
But you know it's not the texts
that make you a good doctor;
it's Aïda and Madama Butterfly,
Dannie Abse and William Carlos Williams;
it's the winter walk in the desert
with your wife and children
and red anemones.
It's the words you choose,
the way you dangle them, sparkling,
before the eyes
of a dying patient,
an aspiring medical student,
or me—your daughter.

This poem first appeared on the "Ad Libitum" page of
Annals of Internal Medicine.
Used here with permission.