The Leper and the Doctor’s Couch

She has deliveries to make.
She rounds the cubicle walls,
Her voice lilting
As she greets each person.

Sometimes by name,
Others with a hello,
Always with excitement;
Her enthusiasm is evident.

I consider plugging in my headphones
So I’ll not know when she arrives;
But no, I know what to expect.
I choose to leave the clutter on the desk.

She enters my domain,
Not a word is spoken.
Gingerly she holds the booklet
Between two fingers:

I am a leper,
My disease flaking from me;
The fibers of the booklet
A transmissive medium.

She must minimize her contact
With that filthy rag
Lest she contract
What I have.

So I seek the doctor’s couch
In the spinning iron ore
Spread throughout the globe;
I inquire to find the prognosis.

But the diagnosis accurate
Comes from the heart;
It is as I presumed:
I am not a leper.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore

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