Existential Emptiness
White-jacketed and stethescoped,
He clicks down the empty corridor
In his loafers and khakis.
The rooms of patients long gone home
To heaven or hell are dark and silent.
‘Round the corner, the janitor waves
But says nothing, noticing the fatigue
In the doctor’s eyes.
Another day gone by, he thinks.
How many more will go?
Too many terminal illnesses have
Crept in
Taking over.
Out in the lot, the Porsche is waiting.
For the first time in his life
The doctor hesitates
Then,
Realizing his sin
He walks.
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