He is visiting the Doctors, nervously lowering into the chair. Except,
He is visiting to give a consultation to the Doctor because it is
Only my family on the other side. He is the professional here, with his
Bag pack and files and brochures, and his refusal to drink from the glass of water
We gave him. He is a guardian angel, I imagine, above and
Beyond touching our water, strapped onto halo rings with invisible threads.
His insurances, glowing day and night, always, for easier location.
He could spot the glowing windows of the city of souls, from far
Far away. Guardian angel, surveying the city he watches over, connected
Like tubes of a life support.
Today, however, the smallest of things he let slip. This
Was beyond his anticipation, not what he prepared for, or that was what
His expression said. How could he have let himself! All of us
Stared at the pen grooves on the paper without ink,
Scribbles of rivers during drought. The magic is lifted. He became mortal.
Here was an unspoken rule: a good salesperson never
Ever runs out of pen ink during consultation. As how Houdini
Refuses to fail before his audience, or how the Doctor is never given the liberty
Of confessing his ignorance. The pen will run out of ink,
A fact we cannot ignore, but
Always out of sight in another magical realm, private mourning, bleeding dry
In a dressing room. He looked embarrassed and
Angry, less like a guardian angel. I blinked away the image of
All the lights of his invisible bonds going out. A power shortage.
He can no longer find anyone and for that brief moment
Everybody died.
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