the doctor
in his white coat
with
a mustard
stain
on the collar
comes in
eating a long
wet
pickle
staring at your
chart.
everything is
fine, he says,
crunching
down. you can
go home now.
we made a mistake
after all.
you're going
to live.
seems that shadow
we saw
on your lung
was my thumb.
our bad. pickle?
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