And no thanks do I get
for thirty years in medicine
for thirty years of rural work
for working alone without a net
not a whisper from officials

The thanks I get are on the street
in the shops, at live music
at Gallery Walk, at thrift stores
walking through town, from friends
from patients or spouses or mothers or fathers
who thank me and update me

Thank you, Beloved, for my odd career
for leading me rural, leading me to primary care
endless learning daily and people
they are all interesting, all different
all have depths that none would guess
all of your beautiful people, Beloved

Thank you for all of it

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: tiara.

This is one of those poems where I started grumpy and did not know where it was going until it went there. The light at the end of the tunnel photograph is on the Metro in Washington, DC last week.

Tiaras probably quality as stuff.