VI.

The poet cut a sorry figure lately;
Early triumphs had lost all of their glitter.
His boss called, which did not surprise him greatly,
But poverty required he was no quitter.
His manager was terse, her tone was brittle
As she explained to him the situation:
“This lady oversees a hospital
And hopes you’ll diagnose an aberration.”
He nodded to the guest; he knew by now
How these meetings would go. “OK,” he said.
The guest began: “We’re just discussing how
Your AI got these thoughts into its head.
Poetry is a worthy exercise,   
But isn’t quite the treatment we’d advise.”

Rags and bones, the hangings of impermanence.
Structures beneath structures,
the chemical banner inchoate within
the litanies of cells.
Where dwells the wellness? Where is the method?
A fumbled reasoning of symptoms,
an indistinct titration,
the tinctures of historic data
color the unobservable.
Then?
The spirit, fixed, entombed,
untouchable in its dualistic doctrine
though equally amenable to dependence.
Who treats who? Who pays the least to rent
more culpable hours in the light?
Wait. 
Wait for the return to a state decreased,
for a return to where we started.
Dust.
Clean the disease from yourself.
If you cannot, can they?
Sleep.

“Free verse,” the poet nodded. “Well, that’s new.    
Strong images, very expressionistic.”
“You know,” his boss said, “what you need to do.”
“Yeah, sure,” the poet sighed. “Less fatalistic.”
“It isn’t really that,” chimed in their guest.
“The feeling on the wards is it’s too honest.
In our business we find that it works best
Pretending we’ve delivered what we promised.”
“No problem,” said his boss, “we’ll skip the truth.”
“Wait, what?” the poet asked. “Less honesty?
Faithfulness can’t be open to abuse!
That is the bedrock of all poetry!”
His boss levelled a stare. “Just get it done.
And then…we need to have a meeting, son.”