My doctor worked my heart in a mansion of his wife's design. Shirtless, the face of a ghost, I am resting in a chair too formal for this use. Jelly softens the contact of sublime electrodes, my goosebumped skin. The walls are marble.
Needles scratch their verdict on player piano reels of rolling paper.
Books older than my grandmother line the walls, interspersed with diplomas, heavy models of the heart. This is a heart of a fifty-year old smoker who is with us no more. This is the heart of a woman with health to burn, presented for comparison. And I am well. I am well.