A miner’s job

Steadying our stethoscopes on the stratosphere, Examining from edge to edge of the Equator, Traversing and traveling and tinkering with our tools, We chip, we shout, we hammer. But our percussions of physiology into practice, And policy paper after paper, Fall flat on eardrums as A chaotic clamour.

Plagued by a universal myopia— Perusing our pharmacopoeia, Draining through the chains of intravenous drips, Of patients with cigarettes on their lips. Fumbling with slips of deranged biochemistry, And peppered petri-dishes, We wonder by the bedside at the stories These reports encrypt.

Doctor — I already know What you’re going to tell me, But I have no community. Doctor, I know not why, I woke up with my life orbiting around, The dialysis machine. ‘Spare a quarter, sir!’ — of change, of an hour, of our health budget? For whom? Us street sleepers, Living in catacombs of misery.

Families collapse in rhythm — ECGs and echocardiograms, angioplasties after angiograms. Tobacco in the ashtray, and three cars in the driveway.

And what of the healthcare workers Standing up against this tidal wave Of chronic disease? If only patients could see, Through our needles, charts, and pleasantries, At the risk, patterns, and probabilities, Ticking silently through our minds. So, we chip, we shout, we hammer. But make no mistake. After long days We breathe and consult our thoughts, Look into their eyes, and continue to prise, Our heads for a solution.

Anahita Sharma