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Interns (after hours)

Every intern has a special relationship with her cadaver
Tonight I see its shadow from the lens of highway
A great neuron transmitting signals from some sinister
Mid-West mind.

The underpass is a catacomb & bar lights must be dimmed
By now.  But Alex knows a Chinatown storefront
Where a blind waiter serves fermented potatoes
from tiny teapots until the whitewash of morning
When these corpses rise up like angry customers
Demanding refunds and wielding scalpels.

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