A man put his one, two, threes in me
and counted like a child learning clocks.
He gave me the leather handshake and squeezed
as two women in white coo to calm.
I flush out what is to be tested
to know if I am to stop crossing my legs
or riding my bike, whether I’ll be
a naked Hitler, if I’ll ever get to meet
people on a personal level and teach
them life as I learnt it. He stops
counting and all of me is in a beaker,
spinning frantic in cloud syrup,
wondering if they’ll ever meet eggs,
or become part of me in blankets.

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