A chain of involved knobs swings
from an iron hook,
articulated, reptilian,
yellow plastic anemones of nerves
wriggling sideways through fiberglass cracks,
spinal tunnel crammed with plastic cables
delivering nothing, lifeless
as a dinosaur propped monstrous
in a museum.

“Here,” the doctor says, flicking
a yellow plastic worm
with his finger. “This
is the nerve.”

I study it, and yes,
there is the nerve, jolting
its mindless electricity
in random, searing needles
into my hip,
down my leg.
I leave the office and
it comes with me.

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