The doctor is bent at the waist, working furiously,
his instruments plotted around him
like counting-houses in the town square.
The patients wait while a flower unfolds
from his open head. Soon, the doctor will break for a light lunch.
Outside, the freeway is under close scrutiny,
the birds floating so peacefully
they might be drones.
They pass through arches inscribed
with the compact names of the sane.
Even the serifs look muscular.
I feel like I have a kitchen funnel on my head!
and its end opens up to heaven.
