The evil version of me is auditioning for The Bachelor.
The evil version of me is running for city council 
on a platform that features charter schools 
and anti-homeless architecture.
The evil version of me is Airbnb’ing his three-bedroom 
and setting up a pup tent in the garage.
The evil version of me just bought another labradoodle.

The evil version of you is a life coach, a Christian yogi,
a wellness influencer and a personal brand strategist.
The evil version of you refuses to eat seed oils.
The evil version of you wants to have six children 
for all the wrong reasons. 
The evil version of you thinks bisexuals aren’t real.

The evil version of me is at Whole Foods, 
snitching on attempted shoplifters.
The evil version of you is at the same Whole Foods
intentionally misgendering a cashier.
The evil version of me just met the evil version of you.

Our evil twins are going to Buffalo Wild Wings for their first date. 
Our evil twins send each other podcasts on financial independence.
Our evil twins are logging into their joint Facebook account.
Our evil twins are using ChatGPT to write their wedding vows.

Our evil twins have never waited a table or restocked a shelf.
Our evil twins have never overdrafted their bank account.
Our evil twins have never had sex while sober.
Our evil twins have never cried when they weren’t sad or angry.

Our evil twins live in a gated community.
Our evil twins enabled push notifications for their Ring doorbell.
Our evil twins own multiple firearms.
Our evil twins don’t know the names of their neighbors.
To the monsters, we’re the monsters.
Our evil twins are terrified of us.

I wait in the former food court to see my dermatologist. 
A cell phone dead zone so everyone stares into the
greasy mirror of locked screens. The spectral imprint
of free sample bourbon chicken, an olfactory haunting.
A nurse walks out of the old Hot Topic and calls us back
in pairs, puts us two to an exam room. She confirms
our birth date and coughs directly into our open mouths. 

Days pass. The doctor asks us to agree on a single
set of symptoms to avoid confusing the AI transcriptionist.
I hold my fellow patient’s hand as the doctor sprays his 
warty knee with liquid nitrogen. There is nothing
for us to do with pain. It’s not “for” anything. My fellow patient
writes me a prescription for a free Subway footlong
with the purchase of any Apple device. A text message
from my insurance company denies the claim I haven’t filed yet. 

My 6-8 week follow-up is scheduled for Junetober 51st. 
Following the arterial exit pathway past the nursing unit that
was once a Sears, the morgue that was an escape room, the 
Starbucks that has always been a Starbucks. One can be
sick and well simultaneously. This is, in fact, the natural
state of things. Outside the pediatric unit that was once 
a Build-a-Bear a chain gang of child convicts waits 
to have their polio vaccines reversed. 

In the empty cavern of the parking garage I press the unlock 
button on my key fob and a chorus rises, the immortal screech
of every bat in the elevator shafts, every bird nested in the 
skylights, the roaches and mice in the subfloor feasting on the 
leavings of private equity strip mining, the black mold
in the ventilation ducts and the severed roots of the pecan grove
beneath the foundation,
all of them singing
in a single voice asking me to 
please rate the quality
of the service received, 
on a scale of 1-5.