“It’s something you won’t recover from,”
my doctor says. “I’m so sorry.”
I sit alone in my room
in the hospital (I call it my room)
thinking about quitting my job: not easy
living with what I won’t recover from.
Just a few friends left but it’s not the same,
they don’t know what to say, “We’re all so so sorry.”
I sit alone in my room
listening to Vivaldi, trying to write a poem
to make myself feel better, two words, three,
I’ll call it, “What I won’t recover from.”
I’d like to call my ex-wife, Pam,
“Look what you did to me!”
But I sit alone in my room
counting down to pill time:
“These will take the edge off things. Don’t worry.”
All I am is what I won’t recover from,
sitting all alone in my room.
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