I've heard this one before.

I've heard this one before.

This is the consultant's room in some provincial hospital,
mismatched chairs, sickly green walls, a three-foot model
of a cotton bud, DANGEROUS printed along its stem.

On his desk: a line of silvered tuning forks lay like strange
fish.
The air rings with staccato bursts of a pneumatic drill
from somewhere along the corridor, ironic for an E.N.T. ward.

He's just said that there's a need to operate, soft hands
clasped over my notes, and all I can think of
is a version of the old 'good news / bad news' joke:

The bad news is&;#8230; you'll lose your hearing,
the good news is&;#8230; the anaesthetist would like to buy your
Walkman.
I thank him as if he's given me a prize

and turn to leave, struggling
to keep the smile on my face.