Waiting for the woe

They tell me the radiologist
they tell me our family doctor
they tell me some specialist
they tell me this:
when they know something
they will tell me.

I would rather wait for
spring or butterflies
or dawn or grandchildren
or snail races
or the Messiah.

I have watched the celluloid bomb’s timer tick
as our paper hero sweats
the blue wire or the green;
I have rewound and replayed
our son’s sudden bloody mask
rising from brutal baptism
after he waterskied jaw-first into the dock:
memories, fictions,
muddled by time.
But this has a different Dewey decimal:
and the devilish drippling derangement
of Torquemada’s water torture.

Each night brings its silent
screaming pre-frontal confrontation
with this betrayal
by my body.
Which might be fresh-faced innocent.
I toss and turn all day
hating the telephone
that interrupts my trance
with friendish digressions.

It’s not the disease
I want to scream at the insectoid voice;
and if, after the pivotal conversation
interrupts, I am smiling,
now know I still have to fill
the emptiness the waiting has left.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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