The Night Alan Alda Came to Me In a Dream

lurching in old lady gait

crab-walking

class to class

on ice slick hills of Ithaca

straight-jacketing my gaze

to glance

their glances off of me

refusing to acknowledge those

whose fingers neatly prised

their Ray-Banned fortunes free

with me here holding

what?

no satisfaction guarantee

doctors didn’t know

joints swelled

my dendrites danced

like go-go girls

you’d be surprised

what weak appeal

mysteries hold for medicos

aspirin four times daily

the cathode

tube-fed pap

of Casey yin

and yang Kildaire,

and Welby cozy-wise

all noise, white noise

capsules stuffed with sucralose

but then one night

in death-wished sleep

Hawkeye Pierce appeared

as on a piece of toast

and listened

sans stethoscope

to my faith laid limp

in a kidney-shaped receptacle

speaking without speaking

“it’s alive”