Something

 

The minute the doctor says colon cancer

you hardly hear anything else.

He says other things, something

about something. Tests need to be done,

but with the symptoms and family something,

excess weight, something about smoking,

all of that together means something something

something something, his voice a dumb hum

like the sound of surf you know must be pounding,

but the glass window that has dropped down

between you allows only a muffled hiss

like something something. He writes a prescription

for something, which might be needed, he admits.

He hands you something, says something, says goodbye,

and you say something. In the car your wife says

something something and something about dinner,

about needing to eat, and the doctor wanting tests

doesn’t mean anything, nothing, and something

something something about not borrowing trouble

or something. You pull into a restaurant

where you do not eat but sit watching her

eat something, two plates of something,

blurry in an afternoon sun thick as ketchup,

as you drink a glass of something-cola

and try to recall what the doctor said

about something he said was important,

a grave matter of something or something else.

James Valvis, Poetry 180 No. 160, May 7, 2021