Monday, February 26, 2007

#309: February 26, 2007

I came out of the sun into a room
washed bloodless underneath fluorescent light,
and there he sat: vindictive as a ghost
in sunglasses, a dirty baseball cap
and overalls, brand-new--the slack legs rolled
up tight and snugly tucked under his thighs.
His gnarled hands clutched the wheel rims like a curse.

And even when I fled that whitewashed gloom,
my doctor's good report in hand, the sight
of that legless trunk--prophetic, almost,
sat like an evil omen in the lap
of possible future, heavy and cold,
harbinger of what cruelties gods devise;
if needed, proof: it can always be worse.


Sonnet Boy said...

Possible title: "Young Diabetic's Appointment with his Endocrinologist, in which He is Visited by the Ghost of Complications Yet to Come."

Or, you know, something snappier. :)

middleclasstool said...

Yeesh. There but for the grace of God.