TALES FROM THE CHAIR, 2
(The Vibrant and the Dis-eased)
I jerk from the chair after treatment,
then pass out. Come to, gasping:
"I’m late for the bus."
Five minute walk to the stop,
if bone can melt, my pace is
cold new wax.
High school tourists with chaperons
scuff by like toddlers on harnesses.
The gaze of one spears me,
eyebrows lower, grin forms, then he snickers.
He’s seeing the sights.
Death is not on their itinerary.
Pale skin anxiously hanging in drops as
my slow breath caresses my waning flame.
My hand takes his . . .
"Beware, my friend as you pass by . . ."
"In the thick of dying,
You’ll fight to live. At least something’s
Happening, how about you
His grip went loose, the skin of
his hand was like a ripe peach.
(I recall that resistant texture).
If he had seen the day I had . . .
the hard air opened before me, a bleak
whirling hollow nailed me to the floor,
they said I only fainted;
gave me a cup of water.
"How are you doing?"
I heard the nurse’s wooly shout.
I thought I saw a warrior brave,
he had on mourning paint;
moving slow with a horse
that had a gouged flank,
they ghosting into the dark.