Ellen McWhirter: To M., On The Eve Of Your Procedure

If size aligned with depth annoyed,
you’d think it was an asteroid
by evil forces stealth deployed
to burn and ravage in the void.

Yet size, alas, drives not the pain
that each relieving must sustain,
and yields a groaning, dark refrain
that pill and prayer have fought in vain.

So, Guardian Angel, help this ass
to bear removal of the mass,
to heal so that all things will pass
which shan’t be named; that would be crass.