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February 12, 2018

Above, a whirring fan chopped the air,
heavy with lemon disinfectant spray.
Tuning in and out, his questions generating static interference
against my skipping, stuttering one-track mind.

I dug deeper into the leathery cushions below,
desperately grasping for something real--
anything sane.

He grunted and scribbled into a manila steno pad,
inking my scratched brain with a label
and naming the earworm I’ll play until my speakers blow.

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