a sonnet

November, 2020

When all is well I stride through life erect,
like Atlas, bold, believing myself strong.
Forgetting, like some pompous starchitect
that I can be, occasionally, wrong.

E.g., the child in me believes, when ill,
the medical industrial complex will
hold my little hand and care for me,
not just perform advanced cash-ectomy.

The workers in the trenches we all love:
those nightingales—those people helping people—
are nothing like the vultures up above.

I.e. my nurse-practitioner’s first-rate—
it is her boss’s boss’s corporation’s 
CFO and CEO I hate.

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