klara[dot]nz

Headlights spill across the road,

Gray wipers clear the rain,

Left-rear door knocking, no seal.

In the rear-view, median slips away-

Drifting awake, another night,

Of lino floors and routine beeps.

Plain white walls, checker-patterns,

And that sad, clinical guilt

Across a team of murderers,

Blue-handed and indisposed

To the tears wept for siblings,

Parents, partners, children,

Who, stuck in bed forever,

Wait for your head-lamp and

Scalpel, is the lingua franca.