The Hands of a Scientist

 a poem by an innocent bystander

With advancing years, my bodily health,

deteriorating as if by stealth,

becomes increasingly susceptible

to ailments decidedly damnable.

So, it becomes increasingly frequent

that I get a proper diagnosis.

The microbiologist takes my stool samples

and other bodily fluids for culture,

the immunologist checks out

how susceptible my immune system

is to diseases, a mycologist gets up

and explores my skin for fungus

he swabs out my ears,

extracting obstinate waxen souvenirs;

but my bacteriologist brings me to tears

as he collects samples for penile swab.

When in deteriorating situation,

I wait for a full blood workup from the hematologist

with considerable apprehension -

my veins are taut with tension.

A chemical pathologist checks

my serum creatinine levels and things akin.

The folks in the blood bank

always keep a lil something for me

in case of autotransfusion.

My histopathologist takes section to water,

his procedures are pretty arcane.

I like him, cause he’s really smart.

Concerning transmissible diseases,

influenza or just about any viral infection,

I’m well informed to be honest

so I don’t need a virologist.

The past few days, I’ve done the rounds,

my curiosity knows no bounds,

and if I get past the phlebotomist

tomorrow I’ll see my parasitologist