the trickle down poetics

coiffed, varnished, double dipped,

lay waste the oubliette of empathy

 

no balm, no salve

shall expel the foreign body that

thorns it’s path in the digital red apnoea

of each choked fallen promise

as they steal your desecrated breath

 

your lips are still moving

 

your lips are still moving even

as your face turns blue

while patience gets sicker

your patient dies bled clean of

ceramic reservoirs leeched and

cupped to a brink of clear relief

where each rating scores higher

 

dried tears bottled and fried

do little and smaller still

the hiding place for those who always

had another sweater

 

doctor?

 

© Paul Sands 2013