A fairly short poem for me. . . but I think I need to cut a line . . . .or two. Just not doing it until you see it like this. Appreciate your help.
The Ways We Die
This morning,
I listen to the learned doctors
in clean, white coats
go on and on
in a public seminar
about symptoms of
heart attack, cancer, stroke.
I think about my sister.
Never once does anyone
mention heartache,
bone loneliness,
or that pinched darkness
that increases with every breath,
slowly squeezing
the life out of you.
What about all that?
Later, I drive over mountains
toward Sylamore Forest,
looking forward to
a dog on the porch
that cannot resist
snapping her teeth
at flying wasps.
The Ways We Die
This morning,
I listen to the learned doctors
in clean, white coats
go on and on
in a public seminar
about symptoms of
heart attack, cancer, stroke.
I think about my sister.
Never once does anyone
mention heartache,
bone loneliness,
or that pinched darkness
that increases with every breath,
slowly squeezing
the life out of you.
What about all that?
Later, I drive over mountains
toward Sylamore Forest,
looking forward to
a dog on the porch
that cannot resist
snapping her teeth
at flying wasps.