It’s another affront

To the anesthesia gods,

(The ever vigilant,

Often cruel pantheon):

A PACU nurse asks

If I’m available to care

For her case next Thursday,

The Ides of March.

It’s the highest honor

Anyone can give me.

So I agree, but fear rises

That she will learn

I’m not really who

She thinks I am.

I thank her and we part,

and our fears both grow.

Thursday comes with a scalpel.

For hours, my heart lies exposed

With hers atop the table

As they cut and cure.

I watch for Brutus,

Lurking inside, biding his time

To hurt someone I know,

For not refusing the honor.

The drama draws to a close,

The blue drapes fall,

And she opens her eyes.

Her colleagues enfold

Their friend in a PACU corner,

And whisper affirmation

On her pain-free arrival

Into their tender care.

She interrupts my report

To thank me for being present.

I squeeze her hand, and watch

The colored vitals on the monitor.

But whose face reflects in the screen?

Their honorable Caesar,

or his traitorous friend,

or some journeyman between?