Upon the matted floor lie rows of empty cavities,
their contents pushed like bubble wrap,
instilling childish joy with a single pop:
artificial numbness with a single drop.
The aluminium desk lamp pulses yellow,
a medical quarantine to rust the pen -
silver and poignant by daylight -
and embolden the matte black laptop;
Spanish red cedar and nylon
melt into the maroon walls,
safely out of shifting sight
searching for some ease to the throb
of skeletal neon residue:
the bruised veins of a doctor's visit.
But behind the black-curtained cubicle
the rain tinkles against the surgical hum
of electronics; water weaves down windows
to pool above the scratchy grass
in which crickets dwell and sing.
Light flushed out and hum extinguished -
all that's left is the furry sensation
of a warm zebra blanket tickling
until numb: the pills begin to take effect.