The dreadful tools of torture lay,

gleaming steel, tray on tray.

In cabinets of wood and glass,

that catch your eye as these you pass.

 

“Sit here,” she said.  “We’ll get to you.

The one you hear is nearly through

and though his screams are not in tune,

we promise to be with you soon.”

 

“Don’t rush.” I said, in tone so brave.

“I’ll read a mag:, the time to save.”

And hope the ancient text will drown,

the awful screeching, drilling sound.

 

A gurgle and a choking noise,

assails my ears to shake my poise.

So to escape my strained thoughts turn,

for all I want to do is run.

 

But they know all about our fears.

Our frantic calls or phony tears.

They know just how much time to take,

to make us like a jelly shake.

 

And having made us malleable,

putty like we do their will.

Trembling in the chair we bide,

anticipating “OPEN WIDE!”

David Garlick, Victoria, April 1991