Beneath a torn and bloody shirt
they found his chest unscathed –
were baffled by his siren cries,
that tortured, pleading gaze.
The doctors checked his vital signs
and found him in the clear.
His pulse and temperature were fine;
they asked ‘Why are you here?’
and echo-gaunt Prometheus
could hardly speak the words –
he clutched his abdomen and cried
‘I beg you, stop the bird!’
The surgeons didn’t understand –
his liver was intact!
‘The man must be delusional;
his pain is so abstract.’
‘Go home, Prometheus,’ they said,
‘and don’t be so obscure’ –
they couldn’t hear the scratching of
the eagle at the door.