• The scalpel in my hand.
    A cold metal key
    to the crimson clockwork of his insides.
    A thick red maze masquerading as life.
    Beep beep.
    The EKG spikes.
    A mans whole being reduced to a tone.
    Keeping the pace to our steady minuet.
    And if it quickens,
    as do our steps.
    Dancing in time,
    can't miss a beat,
    this surgical tango.
    I hope no one notices I'm drunk.