The strange thing about a terminal diagnosis
is that life does not immediately become
some grand cinematic montage
of profound conversations,
and sunsets that suddenly mean more.
Because if it isn’t chewing on work…
it’s chewing on the ticking.
Not because I love reports.
Not because assigning freight,
or staring at spreadsheets
Sometimes it’s repetitive.
Sometimes it’s dull enough
to make paint seem adventurous.
or twelve glorious minutes at a time…
I’m thinking about freight.
I’m wondering why trailer 78 still isn’t docked,
not whether another microscopic colony
People ask how I’m doing.
Sometimes the answer is hidden
Thirty years late to the party.
expecting background noise.
television reached through the screen,
grabbed me by the throat,
Watching him wasn’t entertainment.
wear someone else’s face.
between people who already knew
spoken as though it wasn’t one.
I wasn’t watching fiction anymore.
I was staring into a mirror
I’ll throw on guilty pleasures.
I’ll laugh at Nigel Tufnel,
Pointing at an amplifier.
“This one goes to eleven.”
and don’t call me Shirley.”*
hasn’t learned the address.
Because once you’ve watched
take someone else’s life,
I’ve walked around convinced
“Maybe I’ve stolen another mile.”
Those days feel magnificent.
I wasn’t supposed to reclaim.
I’m marching toward the front line
expected to charge anyway.
that what I had just watched
wasn’t somebody else’s ending.
As though someone had replaced
for the next distraction.
where a shipment belongs.
I’ll fill out another report.
Because that’s what I’ve learned
this disease has made of me.
walking through each day,
collecting little moments
yousharknotpass
2087
gracieabrams
blakekathryn
