Crushing The Weak

The National Insurance Building, floor one,

Is where the crushing of the weak is done,

The Medical Committee is sitting today,

To decide who’s entitled to their sick pay,

The afflicted gather in the windowless room,

Dejected, defeated, full of trepidation, gloom,

Ordered by appointment to needlessly sit and wait,

Prove to the doctors what their records already state,

In an accompanying capacity I entered this scene,

And approached the receptionist, naively keen,

‘Are they running on time’, I innocently asked,

Not expecting the reaction that this unmasked,

‘That is not a question’, the receptionist spat,

I assured her she was in fact wrong and that,

It was definitely a question which I had asked her,

But from the look of her face she did not concur,

‘It is irrelevant if they are late or not’, said she,

Inferring that I was inconsequential, a lesser me,

And also the afflicted whose layers of dignity had,

Been stripped by their bodies becoming bad,

The way she spoke and the look on her face,

Contempt for the ill, she was a total disgrace,

And the sick sat there waiting, head’s low,

They did not demand for this woman to show,

That they were not irrelevant and deserved better,

They were used to this degrading treatment and let her,

Was she a symptom of a system, which causes pain?

Or a cause of that system showing such disdain?

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