Death of a Doctor

(Robert Miller)

David Rowbotham

The news made me sick.
I could have done with a doctor.
I wanted to reach for the phone
and ring for an appointment, but …
too much was disconnected.
As I felt its regularity cut off
and went incredulous – too late
the meaning of your care came home.
For twenty years you kept the hours
to which at a loss I now return
as if to a priest to whom we take
all our familiar physical sins,
not thinking that we are the murderous ones
who kill him with confessions.