Looks like a grenade exploded in your bladder,
Dr. Z chants in the chilly examining room
after the catheter comes out.

Looks like a bomb went off in your bladder—
he announces in the recovery room in his green scrubs,
across my husband’s groggy body.

Looks like a bomb went off in your bladder,
he intones to the four walls in his sterile, shared office,
well hung with diplomas bearing different names,

our own private, wartime poet, armed with
one metaphor, one hackneyed phrase, and chemicals.