"Doctor"

One day you find yourself in a lazy-boy recliner
green vinyl edition

and an obese bull dyke with a condescending smile says
"I'm your kidney doctor."

You've been suicidal and she helps you
by snapping when you complain the room is drafty.

"What are you telling me for?"
concern for her patient's comfort being beneath her.

Suddenly you have a reason to live:
to dance on her fucking grave.


© Dan Goorevitch, 2001