A poem ran away from me
To catch, I tried in vain
It was swift and fleeting
I caught but the refrain.

I struggled with it mightily
And fought the best I could,
But the poem got the best of me
As I somehow knew it would.

For I am mortally infirm
And my poems, too, are ill,
A Doctor’s bedside manner
Requires he be still.

And listen to the patient’s voice
No matter what the words
For often, dying is the choice
When one cannot be heard.

“I’m fine, I’m fine”, the patient says.
I must go back to work.
But the X-rays show a shadow
Where the lethal cancer lurks.

And all the while I sing. I sing.
I commiserate my fate.
For I showed up at the finish line
A hundred years too late.

PwL 5/15/15