I wait in anticipation
for the door, the people to open. White sterilizations in clear sinks, white with despair, or hope - no. But a blur appears, nearer to slurs upon time, patiently sliding in and out of transcendence, he plies his history, deafening from hearing nothing, or enough to staccato a voice. White counts are low, but hearing? Or is it to listen, one ear or both? Hearing loss is bad or positive - but for me, not you who have recovered your sense of Hyppocractic - cursing my health. Recovering are you? Remitting remission? I'm dying you know - for the few minutes I had your attention. As to your recovery: I know you hope I do, and then some. On he goes - bouncing off ears - a flight to Berlin, where they don't speak German and neither do you, so you say learning French is not easy. But where were we, you the last split second while I guessed at you - sent a missile flying, it hit with percussion, while fellow medical watches, learns bad society - skills unbecoming the ear. It's already too late for remedies, though the drugs took hold; I drugged you - or so it seems your health - mentally is failing to grasp - patients or patience, whichever flowers, buds in one lone hermetically sealed Lebanese room - clean, urbane, eating richly a doctor's fat, where clearly you have not traveled. Lost are you? In sitting with a brilliant social idiot. Yes, it comes to me - you are right. Sometimes it takes chocolate, eclairs to regain senses, bearings of flights to Jakarta, for lost iphones, barely missing the gate, the agent, the sanity of travel where few gain remedies, chemo for thin air, for travel weary, the Word Cup of angst, a son's wedding, nearly missed for an IV embedded in orderlies, soul's unmatched by protocol, methotrexate is really at fault hear - lacking constant clarity of blood pressure bearings - north by longitude, latitude that clears a vein. It's safer for pumping more chemo - who knew such a nice word could clarify the destiny of cancer, microbes or smaller blowing up with steriods while on a sleepless trip, into the morning. I couldn't sleep - no really. I had none of it - but it's all good really. Your levels are lower. Do you feel better? Healthy? Clean? Vibrant? Your weight looks good, but you are walking backwards. Trying walking forwards for a mile or two and I'll see you in a month or two, or three or six.
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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December 2018
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