Prognosis

PROGNOSIS

I have not yet built up a natural immunity.

I have not yet grown my leathery

layers of thickened skin.

It's forty-eight years now

I have watched the mole come out of his burrow,

the sun triumphantly, audaciously

exit center stage, the cherry blossoms

noise around the coming of Spring

and still, I have to catch my breath,

force the lump in my throat to

hide itself somewhere less noticeable

and fret at my trembling fingers.

“Be calm! You have seen this

so many times.”

There seems to be no poultice to draw out

the distracted eye, no liniment to soothe

the ache of sleeplessness.

Perhaps next year.

Some maladies need only be outgrown.

Perhaps next year I can look with a clear eye

at the scarred land and simply sigh;

the stars will not stab my heart.

Perhaps next year

I can say in even tones with steady gaze,

“Nice sunset, isn't it?” then casually turn away.

I am told, considering my age,

bone frame and heredity,

the chances of such a change

are slim: one in a near zillion, statistically.

Today, watching the cloud front

forming over Crabtree Meadows,

I'm inclined to believe

the chances are closer to zero.