An Apology from Your Proctologist for Writing Poems About Your Colonoscopy
Dear Aggrieved Patient,
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have written poems about your colonoscopy.
I don’t expect you to forgive me just as you can’t expect me to retract those poems when they’re about to be published. I understand your frustration, really, I do, but I don’t control the publishing industry. I’m not the editor who enthusiastically accepted those poems. I’m just a proctologist with a small private practice who put a sophisticated camera in you and got inspired to write poems. That’s it. That’s the extent of my guilt.
To be fair, they are really good poems. I don’t want to toot my own horn (a little proctologist humor there), but those poems are inspired. The editors at the well-respected, highly-circulated literary journals seemed to think so. They didn’t even ask for revisions.
And before you get upset, I want to remind you that you did sign a waiver before the procedure. In Section 6 of the waiver it explicitly says: “I, the patient, waive all rights to prohibit the creation of art, including poetry, mixed media collages, and surreal portraits as the result of inspiration occurring before, during, and after the procedure.”
And this part from Section 7: “Furthermore, I, the patient, waive all rights to litigate, defame, or otherwise obstruct any and all aforementioned media artifacts originating before, during, or after the procedure.” And this part from Section 9: “In addition, I, the patient, waive any and all rights to be compensated for, file to copyright, or receive due recompense for the aforementioned media artifacts.”
See? It’s spelled out plain as day.
But you were in a hurry and didn’t read the waiver. You glanced at it, signed on the dotted line, and slid into the paper gown. “Got to pick up the kids at three,” you said, “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Well, that’s what I did. I knocked you out. I greased up the camera. I got the show on the road. And then inspiration struck.
Look, I’m not saying that your colon is the best thing since sliced bread. It’s not. It’s not even particularly noteworthy. What I am saying is that sometimes, even in the most compromised moments, inspiration strikes. One minute you’re going along, living your ordinary life, doing your everyday things like arguing with your cousin or walking the dog or shoving a $5,000 camera where the sun doesn’t shine, and the next thing you know there’s a voice in your head and it says, “Inspiration is here. Pick up that pen.”
It says, “Write a sestina.”
And I did. Twelve of them. And one petrarchan sonnet.
And the whole time I was writing, what were you doing? Lying there on your stomach. Drooling onto a paper bib. Probably having the most wonderful dreams.
Isn’t that a win-win? Isn’t that beautiful?
Apparently you don’t think so. You called the office when the journal reached out to get a blurb. They reached out to me, too, but I sent them a copy of the waiver you didn’t read and that was that. I’m proud of those poems. I can’t wait for people to read them. Because you know what? There’s a part of me in every poem. And there’s a really specific part of you, too. That, you would have to agree, is special.
Contributor copies are in the mail, free of charge. You should have them in a few days. In the meantime, give my office a call to schedule your follow up so we can talk about those polyps. The sooner the better, if you take my meaning.