I yawn at my physician’s chamber
It is again the same all over
He treats me

for all the wrong ailments
The evolution of my paper skin, my sleeplessness
and the maroon bones and the blue fingertips
and my brittle rib-cage

I realize nowadays
He never gets tired of my sickness

He is an odd man, a liberal conservative
Every week I watch him
getting old in his dispensary

of hand wash, masks and maladies
I know
he is now treating me for my lost shadow