Diagnosis

I met a thing today, he never raised his head.
A picture of him smiling by a plane,
was my first eye contact.

Looking up. Not at me, but over my head to a clock.
He had stains on his tie and bad skin.

You have lots of letters after your name.

Your life surrounds me like a wound, unhealing.
I should be on my knees cleaning up the stale blood.
One more festering sore, to pay your mortgage,
get fat upon, and make sure your children gleam.

You can't look at me can you.
I disgust you don't I.
Your nausea is palpable.
You know my injury already.

I am a familiar bad smell,
who wants to look at garbage.
Assessed, filed, despised and forgotten.
You cover a yawn.

I am the same as A and G and C and T.
You learnt that didn't you in your heavy books.
You know so much.

But I will tell you a secret,
before I leave.

You are the sick one.