Chinatown

image from Zhang-Zongjing.com

Chinatown

“Medicine is a science of uncertainty and an art

of probability.”--Willam Osler

Several decades ago,

when my medical problems

began to manifest themselves,

it took a couple of years

to partially diagnose me.

Doggedly I searched for cures & answers.

I went to a rag-tag group of healers,

but theology in several languages

are soul journeys, and I never found

the key to healing.

At one point, I decided to investigate

Eastern Medicine. Through a friend I found

a Chinese doctor working out of his kitchen

on Beacon Hill. He spoke very little English.

He sniffed me a lot, took a long look at my

tongue, skin, and eyes--telling me that I had

liver trouble.

He wrote me a script in Chinese,

and sent me to an address in Chinatown.

It was a shadowy, dimly lit rambling

panorama of tall shelves, with little library

ladders in several places. On the shelves

were huge glass jars of herbs, roots, & bones.

I was given “special tea” and a bottle of little

black pills. I never knew what they were; the 

label was in Chinese. I thought to myself,

“Probably repackaged Carter’s Little Liver Pills”.

The tea seemed to be leaves, grass, and twigs.

It smelled like a dead skunk on a gut wagon. It

made me throw up twice, and gave me a healthy

case of the trots--but I found no solace,

                                              no answers, &

                                              no healing.

Peacock called across

the pond, but only the koi

heard the sad shrill song.

 
Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub