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

?"

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.