THE DOCTOR IS DYING,

And where is his daughter?

Upstairs, right turn,

Shut the door

Fall asleep

Stay there

6-hour alarm.

And where are his rings?

Up the hall, right turn

Open top-middle drawer

In rickety desk,

Snatch poorly laquered case

The Doctor is dying,

Hurry up.

Where is his dog?

The bastard is weary,

And leans on the doorframe

That comes before the hall…

Clearing his throat,

In a hardly distinguishable

Growl.

In the foyer,

We are almost a vapor,

But there is a sound

Unlike waking daughters

Or the concerned scurry

Of a lifelong guardian’s

Dulled claws upon hardwood…

There is his partner,

Who creeps there too,

But now stands up from

The floor,

And is upon me like a

Lightning flash.

“The Doctor is dying!”

“And where are his rings?”

I always wanted a study and desk.