Insurance Cretins

It’s not God. It’s not the devil.

It’s insurance cretins numbering days.

Nettling me for proof that I house a dead organ.

Thinking some genie miracle granted me a live pancreas.

I’m leaving a note by computer,

I’m cold, stiff. A gremlin gobbled fax, again.

Pump supplies held hostage until doc fax labs, again.

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