except the call
received half-
asleep at about
what would be
work time should
there have been
any work. groggy,
but expecting a
thing or two or
three, all stuff i
had been avoid
ing the day be
fore, i answered,
“hello” ... “let me
cut to the chase...
cancer.” and there
it was. is. and as
swiftly, there were
plans. “come in to
morrow for labwork.”
“can you have the
surgery on wednes
day morning?” and
i’m not really think
ing. except every
thing is bleak. i
saw it coming.
nothing really
registers except
the plan. i’m to be
where and when. i
am to be there and
then. and even now,
without even a day
having passed, the
one thing i keep
thinking as i coast
through each line:
will this news, this
aberrancy, infect
each line on each
page, befoul each
and every poem
to come? i am
not yet ready to
act against it. if
it does, then i
think let it be.
