What will the doctor see once inside?
What stories will the beat share?
Which ones will it hide?
Will the doctor find a business card
from my 8 year old days?
Where my job description for life
was to have fun, and to play?
Will the doctor find film negatives
from middle school and running in the rain?
With a smile bigger than the storm
bigger than a kid pointing up at a plane?
Will the doctor find their names
rolled up and scribbled in pen
All the girls I pictured as girlfriends
but bashfully only called friend?
Will the doctor find the chain links
leading down into a well full of hope?
Will he recognize me as a man of faith
Is that something a scalpel can cut into?
(Easy answer: nope.)
Will the doctor find an interior design
beautiful tapestry of bumps, bruises, and scars?
Like a wall full of braille, each unique,
memories and moments, healed from afar?
Will the doctor find a music box
with a crank that turns and a key?
Will the doctor hear heaven's song
My anthem and sweet melody?
Will the doctor find her picture
taped up on my heart's wall?
Will he notice a door open for her
and a smile waiting in case she ever calls?
Will the doctor find an autograph book
with signatures from my Friends?
Passports stamped with adventures
conversations and true to the end?
Will the doctor see the chalk bucket
will he see the barbell, will he know?
That the most alive I felt in decades
was Guerrilla's CrossFit 3-2-1-Go?
Will the doctor see the clues
four and thirteen?
Will he know where I turn to
Will he know what they mean?
Will the doctor see the puck
or the garage's broken glass?
Will he see the video on replay
of me on rollerblades flying past?
Will the doctor see notes and pictures
and transcripts of moments shared
Will he realize how much I love listening
Will the slides show that I loved,
that I gave, and patiently cared?
Will the doctor decipher the rhythm
of the unique, my own drumbeat?
Will he follow the footsteps within
of the pattern and dance of my feet?
Will the doctor see the pages
and pages of handwritten notes
Will he notice the letters folded up
into origami hearts, swans, and boats?
Will the doctor see the light switch
from where flips on my smile?
Will he notice it before the first incision
will it be obvious from a mile?
Will the doctor see the checkered flag
as a reminder to run life's race every day
Will he high-five my dad, my hero,
Who inspires me more than words say?
Will the doctor go find my sister
and invest in her visionary art?
Will he see what I see in her
and the beauty she creates from her heart?
Will the doctor see my mother there
and tell her she should be proud
That the walls inside my beating chamber
Held up with her prayers, both quiet and loud?
Will the doctor see me waving
because I live from inside out?
Will the doctor wave back?
Guess we'll find out...