Treasure Island

Stan Petrovich

(10/27/1950 / Fort Riley, KS)

Life Wth Death


Following. Don't you dare shoot that dog
or eat your horse.
I don't care if you're starving.
So be it.
We all starve- -of love, of hate
of tempestuous ills alike.
Then we all die transported
into what we cannot fathom.

I see tiny cells attracting
& repulsing; they know not why,
except they want to keep up
the mindless struggle
against their strange mates,
who, in turn, want to relish them,
destroy their taciturn little existence.

In my head an unvanquished foe
grew. Peptostreptococcus;
it had a medical nomenclature.
Antibiotics were none but a thrill for it,
burrowing bubbles.
Doctor Pitt, he of the booming & healthy voice
operated, the puss squirting out across the room;
and retired. He must be dead,
his brain a mere rot.
But he saved me twice;
my head was large as a watermelon,
my eyes shut tight.

All living things will one day
say 'goodnight.'

Submitted: Thursday, January 09, 2014
Edited: Monday, January 13, 2014

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