THIRTY-FOUR stories over 43rd,I look across to gargoyles, sleek in sun,And find myself remembering Art Deco .I'm tuned out already; a rising echoCalls me back to earth with just one word:Doctor ? Thus, politely, it has begun:The accusations of incompetence,Ten eternal hours reliving oneThat passed (or so I thought) four years ago.Anesthesia's motto, Vigilance ,Was well-enforced. Everything went just so,We shook hands all around—a job well done,A gunshot victim (self-inflicted) saved.The family thanked  me, for crying out loud.But here I sit, appearing well-behaved,Looking the Chrysler Building in the eyeAs gargoyles snarl and leap into a crowdOf lawyers shaking fists against the sky.