My patience.

My patient is

dead. I pulled out

the stethoscope, and thermometer,

took the temperature, measured

the heartbeats, scanned the lungs,

and found the blood pressure

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.