From 'ephron' 2 Poem by Morgan Michaels

He paused.

'But it was bad enough, I guess. 's been a roller-coaster ride since I hit the ER. I've surrendered, though. 'Que sera, sera'.

'Yeah, well, keep your chin up, buddy. Any news so far'?

Ephron seemed stumped.

'News about what'?

'About what's wrong with you', I said, more patiently.

'Oh, it's my heart', he replied, guiltily, as if admitting he left a burner on.

He didn't seem like the ursine individual I remembered from dinner. He sounded depressed. Was he decompensating? I worried, believing a good outlook important for recovery.

The next day his doctor called.

'Bad news', he said, leaving aside the niceties.

'Such as...'? I held my breath.

'We did some studies on your friend'.

'And...'?

'It looks bad. By the way, did he ever smoke'?

'I don't know', I said, impatiently. 'Why don't you ask him'?

I didn't see the point and resented the role of snitch.

'I did', he replied. 'He said 'Never''.

'Well, there's your answer'.

'Yes, but people say lots of things'.

'True. How bad is it'?

'As a cardiomyopathy, I've never seen worse. And we see everything here in Reno'.

'Tell me about it', I thought, peering through the window to the Chrysler Building.

'He's riddled with disease. His hearts' barely beating. He shouldn't be alive'.

'Are you sure', I asked.

He was.

'Poor Ephron'.

'Ephron needs a transplant. Say, does he have family'?

'I don't know. We never talked about it. Does Ephron know'?

'Only what I thought he could handle. I don't want him to worry, unnecessarily'.

We hung up. That night, I called Ephron.