Institutional

Think of a room with

No center, only corners.

Anonymous space;

Corridors endless,

Everything angled. Airplane

Terminal. Here is

Where I’ve spent the last

Four years. I sit at series

Of workstations. Like

A drone, except my

Queen is one of hundreds of

Attendings. Ever

Diminishing my

Individuality,

Assimilation

To their dictated

Prerogative, the only

Agenda. Masks

Do exacerbate

The emptiness and longing

To be recognized.

I type, I count my

Syllables, while outside my

Reading room the door

Clatters open and

Closed. I await the end of

My shift, to go back

Home, try and sleep, then

Come back and do it again.

A clockwork doctor.

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