Would you be my Doctor?

Would you be my Doctor?
The surgeon to wield the knife –
the dagger that will dissect, that could sever.
Oh!  Your mask hides your mouth
but not your eyes . . .
Is that by chance a wedding ring
beneath those aseptic gloves?
We play mental ping pong:
you probe with knowing fingers
ready to prescribe . . .
inflicting necessary pain
as the exam persists.
I want to scream out,
"Should I respect you?"
Or should I meekly inquire,
"Could we become friends?"
Share your life with me
on tuesdays, on thursdays,
some weeks – it all seems so eternal.
Will you be my Doctor?
Prolonging my ruin
as we tread together through
the symptomatic mine fields
that I call home.
               – 1989