I am a gastroenterologist, living with my wife in Denver. Most of my poetry is not medical. My work has appeared most recently in Field, Rattle, and Hotel Amerika.   

The Foot of the Bed 


I wake up one morning 
with size 60 feet. 
I notice a tiny figure scaling 
the twin sheeted Alps. 
He’s crossed the foothills 
of the ankle and the ridges 
of the metatarsals. 
Now he nears the summit. 

He looks older. 
Grayer than I remember. 
He who built sand castles 
and flew on the wings of books 
must attempt the final ascent: 
the sheer cliff of the right great toe. 

He carries a tiny flag. 
Or perhaps it’s a lily. 
 (You understand, Reader, 
the pride that minor poets 
take in their defeats.) I wiggle my toe. 

Down he tumbles, vanishing into a wrinkle.