don winslow, 24 grudnia 2011
With every Biopsy, a part of me dies,
A part of my body, a part of my spirit,
Like a rock beaten down by the constant drip-drip of water,
Slowly, surely, wearing, gnawing..
Variable is the location,
Constant is the anger, the worry, the despair.
A needleful of my Prostate, a snip of my skin, a scrape of
my mouth..
Death of tissue, death of psyche.
The bliss of benignity, or the malice of malignancy,
Which will it be?
Push the pause button on your life,
Don’t start anything new!
When, Dear God, when will that Doctor call?
don winslow, 23 grudnia 2011
We first met in the Freshman Class
At Newark’s St. Benedicts Prep School
We sat at the back of the room
Wᴌosinski, Wojtowich, and Wujciak
Father Damian was
taking attendance
Anderson-“Here”, Bryant-“Here”,
No problem so far
Wᴌosinski, Wojtowich, and Wujciak
Down the alphabet he went
Leetch-“Here”,
Morris-“Here”
Getting closer to
Wᴌosinski, Wojtowich, and Wujciak
On his face, little beads of sweat appear,
Rossner-“Here”,
Thompson-“Here”,
Almost down to
Wᴌosinski, Wojtowich, and Wujciak
“Must be a misprint”, he thinks,
“W followed by a funny looking l,
And the next two names
look no better,”
Wᴌosinski, Wojtowich, and Wujciak
With mercy, with compassion
I stood up, “v-woh-sheen-ski”
Hank stood up, “ voy-toh-vich”,
And Don stood up, “voo-eee-chock”
That’s the way we did it as Freshmen,
And 3 years later, many teachers later,
We’re still standing up to say
“Wᴌosinski, Wojtowich, and Wujciak”
don winslow, 11 grudnia 2011
To
the Poet
You see what I see
You feel what I feel
And you say what I cannot say
As I read your words
I nod yes I nod
At thoughts I'd not yet thought
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