The Battlefield of Survival

There is nothing that brings out our fragility
to surface like surgery, dreams one has of
success is laid bare under the well-lit light
of an operating table
First time I had one of those growths removed
was seventy-five years ago by our doctor
wearing a three-piece suit with a blue tie
My memory of him is that of a man who 
had a cigarette in one hand and a scalpel
on the other hand, during the proceedings
 he spoke to my mother about the weather
That was inclement, and the Labor Party
He and my mother were communists 
For a long time, I had to take blood tests
which I didn't mind, his waiting room was
full of magazines and newspapers
There is nothing to read in waiting rooms
anymore, apparently, it is unhygienic 
Not that it mattered, one has phones
The surgeon and his assistant spoke 
pleasantly to each other about their work
at hand, I just happen to be there
After the operation, I was led into a room
to rest and dress, no, there was no kind
nurse serving tea