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In the graph, bands of color recede like mountain silhouettes drawn by a child...
I never take calls when I'm with a patient, except today when the phone rings from Boston—liver mets on his scan, biopsy tomorrow...
Fathers of Only Children
After all the encores at Tanglewood, the only music left is September’s song of crickets scraping their legs for mates...
The sharp steel wall of the concert hall encloses the melody and wounds the summer sky, a soft yellow glow gathering before moonrise...
Late Last Night
Outside, the bluestone patio warmed my bare feet, and I smelled Casablanca lilies and honeysuckle we planted last spring.
Before I knew much psychiatry I met his angry stare in the ER, a homeless man with a three day beard...
We climbed concrete ramps from the subway’s underground world, up to the grandstand and my first vision of heaven...
spring-time territory, raucous and free as a New Orleans . . . trumpet, my patient locked-in to the wild tune
Atheist With a Poet’s Heart
But old colleagues said . . . the holocaust made him an atheist with a poet’s heart, . . . a Jew who loved to stand and chant David’s psalms
Ape With the Bone
I pictured him at his waiting room door . . . clutching a chart, catching eyes, . . . calling out a name, bewildered