He asked and so I told him.
The "cancer" poems stem
from cancer in the family.
Daughter's terminal.
Son's a five-year survivor.
Mother died at 59.
I had 13 polyps, all benign,
snipped a year ago.
I go back next month
for another roto-rooter.
As one grows older,
neighbors, friends and folks
one doesn't know
die from it.
That's life, isn't it.
One never knows
but the question's not
"Why me? "
The question is
"Why not me? '
Think about it.
We'll all pop something
now or when, won't we.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem