Prostrate Cancer Poem by Annie Jackson

For granted you took your body cogs, oiling them with tar
But all workers need refreshment – even automata.
Eighteen months later, the service is largely lip:
“The weekend Dad’s body betrayed him. What karma! ”
“Doctor, doctor his genes stowed it, dormant.”
Till your Vesuvius; rampant cells all in a row
Revolutionary without huntsman’s horn
At the stony scene I stand statue – like
God bothers. After all.