For Edward Albee.
The doctor is the receptacle
of the myth.
The doctor found his week-dead wife
In the jarred coffin
On his lawn after the flood.
The apples are getting heavy
He said.
And they are tearing down
The limb.
The doctor slit his wrist
With an electric knife
Cutting Thanksgiving turkey.
In the old pylon pole South
He’d let Bessie Smith
To bleed on the highway
Back when it rained
Five days.
The doctor is the receptacle
Of the myth,
And he is walking lazily
Toward infinity.
-Jack Vaughan
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