First I thought to write a poem

Titled “Fierce,”

about your insistence on


despite the right leg’s drag,

it’s wasted muscles.

Then I vowed to hitch my van

to the tin rectangle,

floral happiness for sale fronting New Seasons, plush

with pungent Asiatic lilies, thick bunches of mums, roses and daisies

and bring the flower power to

pile high on your front steps.

Garland and drape the porch in

living beauty,

to stop the cancer, slow

death down.

Betsy says, how can this happen?

How can the poet warrior, undaunted

by MS,

get this no hope

uterine cancer?

random cruelty of life


that’s how.

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