Hypochondria
The sickness chuckles from its deep place, still unstirred.
You will not find it there, o' thou incompetent…
And then, the doctor slides his stethoscope away and frowns.
"You are all ok," he says like a death sentence,
"Go home."
My nod is wooden, my dead
Half smile floats upon my surface like a living thing.
This body makes its excuses and retreats with its suspicions confirmed
And the only universe that matters laughing in unison, all the goddamned way
Down the elevator.
Sliding outside among the hollow cars, and I am seeing,
Dead bits of faces peering deadly out through masks of tinted glass.
The Liars have been busy; my smile is wry.
I have been expecting nothing else.
I climb into my casket like a doll.
I drive away from this fortune-teller's house
Upon a road, which is yet more live than I.
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