The medic came with his scripts—one for The Tempest,
One for Dangerous Drug Interactions, which he could cite
On command—and in varied degrees of slurred lips
And wobbly syllables—and gelcaps full
Of seasonal lobotomies.  

The pastor came with his time cards—rather,
His running-out-of-time cards for sermons
On the end of days—flash cards, business cards,
Fortune cookies with “made in heaven”
Printed inside.  

The teacher came with his head in a box.  
They came to visit Spring, dressing up the veranda
Like a toddler dressing dolls in sun hats
Like a toddler coloring umbrellas
Like an assembly line worker putting wrappers on candy.  

For their part, they resuscitated the bumble bees,
The spiders and locusts,
And saw Lazarus on a patio, half-asleep,
With his dopamine start-up kit and map to the stars,
And declared him a lost cause.  

Normally, he’d play his voice like a vibraphone
At this point but he played the windchimes
Instead.  

Upon seeing their thought bubbles dragging
The carnations bulging like egg sacks, weighted down
By question marks and quotation marks,
He crossed them out. They tried to resuscitate
The Xs too.