this poem has cancer.
a lump of letters in a swollen stanza and here we are: our monthly visits to the poetry clinic, flushing out the enemy with a double does of rhymotheraphy.
the course is intensive.
expensive, too.
specialist care isn't near; it takes a full toner cartridge to get here and we have to stay for weeks, sometimes. it's then I wish I could find the money for some special treat.
glossy paper is not cheap.
more time is spent away than home; so there's no work on other poems, no other income coming in.
pockets and patience wear thin.
we cannot afford to be unsupported.
and every poem needs its poet.
cancer costs.
you should know this.