LIKE KNIVES
The doctor snarls
Well, what do you want me
to do about it?
I stand there /appalled
immobile /hating him
My teeth grate like knives
braying over a dry whetstone.
My feet burn, the floor rots
Not a word can I strike to
ignite my sodden indignation.
I part my lips enough to slice--
Everything.
February 1969