My patience.
My patient is
dead. I pulled out
the stethoscope, and thermometer,
took the temperature, measured
the heartbeats, scanned the lungs,
and the blood-sugar level
to be perfect. I sighed.
My patient is not dying
of coronavirus.
My patient is morbidly sick
of infections from
foreign religions. “Remove
the life support and arrest
the spread of
the venom,” I instructed them
and left the clinic.
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