Treatment Plan

“Faulty wiring,”
he says, scrutinizing me
like I’m the toaster
that burned his morning bagel.

He screwdrivers his pen
into the pad of scripts,
slides the top slip
toward me.

Instruction?
Encapsulated Magic?
The cure?

Protect yourself.
Cover your eyes.
Grow a thicker skin.

Already up and away,
he fingertip waves
and closes the door.

Crossed wires are contagious.