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



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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