By Michelle Francisco

You have a striking Dustin Hoffman nose,

White, wispy hair, and gorgeous skin.

Your glasses give you a geek-chic look.

You can't function without your palm pilot

That's shoved in your lab coat pocket.

Under that coat, you wear suspenders

And, on occasion, a bowtie.

In my folder, you keep pictures of me in a fuchsia dress

To remind you of how I'm supposed to look.

I see you shake your head at how

My jammies always match my slippers

And try not to giggle at my trendy ensembles,

So I know you must not have daughters.

You say that if you weren't a doctor,

You'd want to be a teacher,

Which you already are.

You reminisce of your childhood:

Radio shows (you do wonderful impersonations),

Your phobia of the flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz,

How you used to speak Yiddish.

(I had always wondered about your accent.)

You've retired about four times,

But still work like a mad man.

You check on me at midnight

And answer your pager on holidays.

Once, you commented that drug companies

Practice "reverse Robin Hood".

When we start a conversation,

You always say, "What’s doing?"

The nurses both admire and fear you.

You are like a grandfather to me,

But you think you're just doing your job.

Sometimes, your questions are complicated, but that's okay.

You get upset with me when I worry.

You call me a perfectionist and you're absolutely right.

You view my education to be less important than my happiness.

I wish I were like you.