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.