Biker At The Drugstore Poem by Donal Mahoney

It's a very busy drug store
with seats along the wall
where folks who wait for refills
sit and sometimes chat
but as I discover you can
leave the store worse off
than when you walk in.

The fellow next to me's
a biker as his attire says,
a red bandana around his head
a black leather jacket with
zippers dashing everywhere.

I've never met a biker
but everything is fine until
he presses something in his neck
and says his vocal chords
were harvested by cancer.

I lie and say I understand
but then he adds he's been told
he now has liver cancer.
He's picking up some meds
he hopes will let him live.
The doctor says six months.
Again I lie and say I understand
but who am I to understand.
I've never had cancer.

I tell my wife later, next to
marrying her, the smartest thing
I've ever done was quit two packs
a day and vodka straight
no chaser on the weekends.
That was 50 years ago.
She says marrying her was
nowhere near the smartest thing.
Quitting all that stuff was better.
I suspect my biker friend
if he had another chance
at life would join me.