I am spending more time
with my prognosis:
dying
this death that seems slow
but won’t at the end
instead of putting on a sweater
and waiting in the office
for the name of it
I am lying in the sun
and letting rain touch me
the diagnosis sparks
such gossip
as if it were rare
did you know she is dying?
the telephones shrill
or thumbs sketch out conjecture
as if it were unheard of
and not inevitable
as if the support group
is exclusive
keeping you out
…welcome.