Why would my oncologist put on
the uniform of those nameless cops
my father warned me about? Always say,
“Hello Officer, nice day,” then get away
as fast as you can. And why not? He’s armed
with news. And I’m stripped down to paper gown
and a heart beneath it pounding out of place.
He might as well stand in the hospital parking lot
as I roll in, his hand raised clearly: Stop,
my hair brushing my bare shoulder as I lean
his way in sun, Nice warm day,
isn’t it? Not blurting, Am I flying
toward my future too fast? Concealing contrabands
within? while all around us trees withdraw
their green, preparing for a spectacle
of loss so brash I hold my breath.
When he lets me off with a warning, imagine how carefully
I cross the speedbump toward my getaway.
Do I appreciate such generosity?
Will I pay more attention now as, leaf
by leaf, fall tears into the air,
its implications hurrying my way?
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