DiagnosisI remember sitting in
the office. Hard plastic chair
offered little comfort,
no matter because I could
not be comforted
He held a clip board
pages rolled underneath
Medical texts were down
from shelf, pages bent
at corners
A pretense was given
that he was just reading
the reports. He needed a
moment, he knew what
they told
If he were direct, it would
have eased my agony
No such mercy this day
as small talk sang
a dark tango
At last relief to this
tail spin of worry
Delivered dry, my life was
explained away in a few
medical terms
Composure held, as I stood
and thanked the man for
his time, a material I
realized I had less
of now
Sitting in my truck, I locked
out the world. Emotions
boiled over, the dam
of my resolve
burst
Was it my path to be
the father only in photos?
My image the same
as my daughters
lives changed
I faced my greatest fear:
to simply not be
in the lives of my
girls. I faced it
and conquered
I can only change that
which is in my control
What is not I have
only to acknowledge
and accept
That is my diagnosis.
Posted By Mike On Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Filed under writing |
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