The same jazz instrumentals
Supposedly relaxing,
Do little to ease
The furious drummer in my chest,
Or unfreeze me
From my chair.
Waiting,
Waiting…
“He’s ready for you.”
The assistant points to a chair,
Awkwardly reclined,
A worthy chair
For human experimentation.
“No need to worry.”
Should I be worried?
By the lingering odor
Of artificial chemicals,
Concealed smiles,
Beneath a surgical mask?
The spotlight is slapped across my face,
But I can still see
The hands covered
In dental plastic
Surreptitiously shutting the door
To hide the screams
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