The tape on my right arm
protects the needle hole from invasion.
Still warm, my blood’s en-tubed within the clinic.
I sit across the street,
deliberating over coffee and scone.
Good thoughts, good friends, diet and exercise
can’t save me from
an errant thyroid,
a rebellious prostate gland,
and other debilitations.
Days will pass, this purgatory will end.
Results will wash up with other data.
I will pick through the flotsam
and try to decide
what must be
done.
My daughter (still young, I might note) tells me she is tiring of aging/mortality poems. And then out pops this one. Oh, well, it’s this stuff that makes the flower’s smell (and time with my daughter) so precious.
Post a Comment