Of Cancer

Read some poetry -
ancient if you must,
but red is the blood that
pierces this trial of mine.

The elevator glides and
welcomes our needle,
a walk in and out,
for hope,
a gesture, a blank stare,
and then a cure.

But travel in millions of
microbes, cells giving life
or not.
Here red gave,
the piano is to be turned
on and off.

Echoes and plants -
towering the patio-
the foyer of people -
strangers to death.
Or their own hearts on fire.

I took it and had it cropped.
Then dared it to scare
across a plate -
stored it in millions of tokens.
It's ready for duplication.

A moment then a rage
to be seated in order of importance.
We all know, but are unknown
in our chairs.
How can people work this,
silent vitals, quietly timing
themselves.

© 2012 Larry Ingram