A refrigerator slides down the street,

moved by the wind.

Its owner chases it.

“I’m a doctor!”, “I’m a doctor!”,

she will have to say,

this woman, some time later,

in a courtroom.

Mrs. Toolson is eight months pregnant:

she cannot hinder the very sophisticated,

and shiny,

kitchen appliance on wheels,

nor can the employees of the funeral parlor

(nor the people leaving the costume party).

“I’m a doctor!”, “I’m a doctor!”,

she will repeat, some time later,

in a courtroom.

Neither can Mr. Cooper,

at the wheel of his lawnmower,

nor the soccer playing sons

of Mr. and Mrs. Liverpool

(mathematicians, these:

a subtle metaliterary premonition:

two Venn diagrams overlap

in the story we are dealing with:

sinister NGO and illegal cornea transplant).

“I’m a doctor!”, “I’m a doctor!”,

in a courtroom.

The shiny kitchen appliance on wheels

starts rolling uphill

after reaching the bottom,

and finally disappears into the mist;

it later reappears after impact:

some mods with their forty-mirror Lambrettas

with a figurine hanging

inside the windshield

(it’s the Queen of England, waving).

“I’m a doctor!”, “I’m a doctor!”.

The gazes of some women

(dressed as punks),

“They look like upside down brooms”,

the doctor will have to say,

in a courtroom,

emanate curiosity, also caution;

now faced with the open fridge, fear;

now everyone, arranged in a semi-circle,

was behind them.

“I’m a doctor!”, “I’m a doctor!”,

she will repeat, barefoot,

in a courtroom.