August Poem 42: Single Payer Healthcare: It Will Only Cost Your Soul

I was seeing its fresh Christian thunder,

Eyes that had seen the millennium set

On deep clay. Wearing what weren’t even

Tamed and pulled closed. The hospital gowns. For

Me, they brought two. The pale horse. Six foot four.

Two hundred and twenty-five pounds of grey

Flesh. Tie one on backwards and one on forwards

To haunt the white halls. To determine the

Bodily apocalypse waging. To

Be wheeled from one bright room to another.

To be prodded with cold instruments. To

Be fed through the center of a spinning

Machine. Modern inquisition to force

My confession. My forced resurrection.

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