Dressed as a virgin, right ringed, his.
She was waiting long, lovely, lonely,
But yet is she unwell, he judges this.
Is this the place, wonders she, is he the one,
He will strip her bare, with grace, dignity,
Probe her deep with touch and thinking,
He will find her, coz, it's costly here, the experience.
So she is reassured, he approaches,
Bends to her heart, sprouting metallic twigs.
Transformed now, looking, listening, feeling, the sterile ceremony.
The rubber sheath/silver thumb,
Moves over her back and breast,
Chilling and willing her to breathe deep,
And up the tubes her breath comes sighing.
'Ahhh' she cries at the touch on her tongue,
As tighter and tighter exquisitely his rubber arm squeezes,
Willingly, she lies there opening up while he unfolds her,
Counting the tiptup, tiptup of her dutiful valves, their rhythm.
He has seen her, her kind, different editions,
Over and over again, many times,
He knows the stars outside the window.
Her symptoms constellate,
Form substance translated into words,
He hands her the paper,
"Give it time to heal, dear lady,
Goodbye,
It's been a most enjoyable diagnosis."
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