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Today you’re the still photographer


on a movie set and you see the doctor 
who appears to have been hired 
to provide first aid for any cut or scrape
an actor might meet with. You know 
he’s a doctor not by a white coat, 
stethoscope, or head-mirror reflector 
on his forehead, but because earlier 
you overheard somebody ask, 
Who’s that? At that, the person 
to whom the question was addressed 
had turned and said, He’s the on-set 
doctor. You too had looked 
in the direction the first was looking. 
You’d noticed the doctor was handsome 
and as soon as you did, you’d sensed 
you had seen him before. 
The feeling wasn’t pleasant. 
You could even say it was painful. A pain 
the size of a toy dog left on a rowboat 
adrift in a mist. You saw through the fog
and remembered a moment when 
you were very young and a doctor said 
you should imagine pain as a number 
between one and ten. You now wonder
how he knew you could count. 
With the question of counting,
you recall a rhyme: One for sorrow, / 
Two for joy, / Three for a girl, / 
Four for a boy, / Five for silver, /
Six for gold, / Seven, for a secret 
you never told. The director yells, Cut!
You didn’t know the filming had begun. 



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