Exactly how much notice should I give
to little bumps that feel like fat or bone?
Disdaining waiting rooms is how I’d live,
and waiting for a change in shape or tone.
The symptom tends to worsen or to shrink –
it doesn’t have a name the doc will know –
and odds are I’m not treading on the brink
of peril, but exploring some plateau.

My mother sees three doctors every week.
My friends go in for screenings once a year,
who screen the cable shows for each unique
anomaly infecting us with fear
at least, and viruses or mutant bugs
at worst, for us to decimate with drugs.

This entry was posted in Aging, Health, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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