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Poems by Michael Estabrook
Attila the Hun
“Say, Doc?” I grimace
as he yanks the stitches
out of my jagged red hernia scar
(though curiously it doesn’t hurt).
“What happened
when someone had a hernia
and needed surgery like this way back
in the Middle Ages?”
He brushes
my incision carefully
with an alcohol wipe.
“They died,” he states,
as he strides out of the room
like Attila the Hun.
balcony
I always felt I should do
something unusual
or extreme to win her over,
to gain her attention,
her look of approval,
like serenade her or call out
to her from beneath her window
like in the balcony scene
in Romeo and Juliet,
climb a ladder,
snatch her away,
her knight in armor shining
like the moon
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