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.
Melodramatic Physician 