All That Will Be Left Poem by Mark Heathcote

I'm sorry, how did it go.
Sure you know that monster op?
Do you remember that
old apothecary's shop?
Yes, a glass kaleidoscope-
of coloured moraines?
Remember those-old-folk
rattling like coffin nails.
Whatever happened to that-
greasy-haired apprentice?
'Sure he's now qualified,
works in some pharmacy chemists.'
And that receptionist-
who wore that sexy little red spotted-dress?
'Believe she had low-standards,
was-mutton undress'
You mean mutton-dressed-as-lamb,
you still on that diazepam:
'I am when I can get it-
without having a cardiogram.'
My ailments there much better thanks;
I guess I'm healing.
'But isn't that receptionists
-here quite unfeeling, isn't she? '
'I went to the docs the other day
nothings the same.'
He's giving me pills for pills,
and more than I can name.
Each counteracts the other,
guess someone's getting rich
now, this involuntary twitch
has a 2nd minor twitch.
What's your stock in trade nowadays?
Have you recently retired?
'Sir! I like these here painkillers
has long-expired to work.'
Your hands are all waxy
you're like-a-waxwork mannequin.
All that will-be-left soon is that-
surgeon's keyhole-needlework.
And a smile leaning to one side that-
says you still haven't learnt
what to do when nothing really works.