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.
Instead of a forehead, the Monopod is endowed with the determined prow of a shin. Ankle bones rather than ears flare attentively from a lean face. Teeth? Five ragged toenails. Here’s one who doesn't resent being called a heel. Left out? He says, Kick down the door! Uncertain of a position? Stamp out the opposition! Like a hat that’s too large, difficult questions are best danced around, at first slowly, then faster and faster. Right foot. Left! Right! Left! Once the inhabitant of a land beyond the torn edge of the map, the end of knowledge, abode of our darkest fears, the Monopod has been realized in us. You think I’m talking about someone else.
©2016 Bill Rector
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF