Anaesthesia blues

In the O.R. I’m cold as hell
wearing blue cotton apparel.
At least the patient’s wrapped up well
by a Bair Hugger and drapes; tucked
away from the Antarctic duct

spilling an icy stream of air
at target range — you can guess where:
upon me, huddled in the chair
placed with ignorance or intent
beneath its thin-lipped, hissing vent.

My hands are numb, and nose runny,
though the surgeons’ lamp is sunny;
his voice sweet as red-gum honey.
Insulated by gloves and gown
he wants the temperature turned down.

“Too hot in here!” I must delete
whatever words seem indiscreet:
these guys keep me on easy street.
It’s even easier to see
nobody has considered me.

What’s also tough is, currently,
professional indemnity
costs rising like a tsunami.
There is no excess fat to burn.
Insurance takes half what I earn.

Yet, for a while, I must persist.
Another day, another list;
another reason to exist
since this is all that I can do:
my “recherche du temps perdu”.