Olgita with her chemo-cut
bald as any cue ball
down three-quarters breast
her fingers thinner than the pencils
held in the execution
life in bed
the flat screen delivering deadpan
the bad jokes of daily news
nothing to do
but gather interest
(the same way indigents
scrounge tobacco from dead butts)
in the moisture slowly painting
free-form frescos on the eastern wall
the daughter in and out of treatment
depending on which voices she listens to,
the son in the army now
doing surgery on rifles,
thank God for grandma,
the rock of ages
who will not be moved,
walking with trouble
and the stairs, well, they're murder.
Olgita in her room
with the million dollar view
she's tried to mortgage
to cover the thousand biopsies.
What more can be said?
Cancer wasn't what we expected.