The lawn was white with doctors, nurses, orderlies, medical technicians and secretaries, perhaps former patients as well, each carrying a pink plastic flamingo in the dead dark of night. It was winter in Rochester, New York. The lawn was also white with three feet of snow but that did not stop these practical jokers from placing fifty pink plastic flamingos, artfully arranged around the bushes, the trees, and the brick-lined walkway of the front yard of their favorite colleague. He slept, as the snow fell lightly on the eve of his 50th birthday.
The lawn was white with doctors; I kissed the lawn and I liked it. I kissed the white and I liked it. I kissed the doctors and I got so very, very tired because the lawn was miles wide and hours deep and after the first hundred, they all kissed the same and I didn't like it.
The lawn was white with doctors, fine by me. I've been trying to kill the crabgrass and overgrown weeds, unpruned dying trees for years but my gardening tools keep breaking. Maybe the abundance of doctors will do the killing for me. I'm sure they mean no harm.
The lawn was white with doctors. Of course, it was a late summer lawn party at David Letterman's house or whatever celebrity it is that eats only white food, maybe I mean Anderson Cooper, so even though the food was white: white bread sandwiches with cream cheese, white chocolate, cauliflower and white dip, New England clam chowder in white bowls, vanilla ice cream, marshmallows and whipped cream, and mayonnaise ( white-meat-only) chicken salad, white potatoes and white asparagus...the doctors all got lost in all the whiteness.
It was just as well, no more empty nodeshell.