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 view


Sometimes when I write 
I am distracted
by a window washer
who lowers himself from my brow.

We’ve seen each other before
but have never spoken, not even 
exchanged nods through the glass.

How’s it going?

How’s it going?

Slowly, I tell myself. And fast.

I rest my head on my hand.
Who would want to balance
on a pitiful platform like that
in boundless space every day?

Below? Don’t ask.

Like me, he’s an artist, 
self-taught, except he
uses soap and a squeegee.

Splash, swoosh, swish — \the world appears
without a single line.

I admit, I’m jealous.

And not above
stealing his work
as my own.


​
 
at the gate 
 
 
A sparrow born in the terminal 
descends to peck at crumbs 
 
left by a departed passenger. 
A fly waits like a miniature jet 
 
on a runway of glass. 
I wonder if it’s dead. 
 
Standby passengers look haunted. 
Their faces are cracked visors. 
 
What do you know about yourself 
that you have told no one, 
 
not even God? That is who you are. 
Lucky are those among us 
 
who did not bring baggage. 
I said, lucky, not blessed. 
 
The spaces above our heads 
will be filled by others.