Chaos, pure, and burning. Ring, ring!
The phone screeching to its—
highest point, executing my patience.
The pit-pa-tat-clat of pouting feet.
The buzzing, time for the lunch
long forgotten in the oven.
The dog, Daisy, weary after the
rumble and tumble of the nuisances
placing panties on her head,
“those don’t even match her fur!”
I exclaimed through a fatigued and strep voice.
Just breathe.
Inhale the fumes of dirty diapers;
exhale the thought of scrubbing
the icky sticky stuff off of the wall—
a young child’s canvas.

Who’s going to cure you?
Scalpel, test tubes, and molecules.
Dissecting a host of a viscous virus,
toxins spattering on the bare white concrete walls.
A discovery inaugurated,
the joyous bells of success clang through the empty room.
I fulfill the purpose of my existence.
To cure the body of a sickness
pulling it to its dismal decomposition is praise enough.
The Nobel Prize wouldn’t amount to
hopefully helping humanity not hear
a final goodbye when all reasoning dies.
Knowing that triumph over tragedy is never certain,
knowing that it was me,
the body in the white all-knowing lab coat,
would be more than exceptional.