From 'ephron' 8 Poem by Morgan Michaels

The next day Ephron called, in a lousy mood. Between fits of spleen, he sounded very weak.

'Ephron', I hailed, mindful of his state, 'que passo'?

'Don't ask. I've just about had it'!

'Wha'd'you mean'?

'Now, my doctor's talking disability. He says I can't work-that it's bad for my health- that I should get everything in order'.

'Ephron', I sid, trying to minimize the implications of the directive, 'he's just doing his job...'

'Nice job'.

'I thought he said you were ok', I said, reassuringly.

'He did. Nevertheless...'

'besides, I interrupted, 'at our age, it's good to have everything clear. You feel better'.

'Wha'd'you mean, 'our age? My mother lived to be 93. And pop died in a bicycle accident, so that doesn't count'.

Ephrons' unwitting denial was tragic.

'I know what you mean, buddy'.

'Do you? Well, when he starts with that 'get your affairs in order' business, it doesn't make me feel so good'.

'Ephron, I'm sorry. But, how do you feel'?

Sincere in his wish to make an honest acquittal, Ephron paused to think.

'I feel ok', he decided, in sum. And, re-considering, 'In fact, I feel better than ok. I feel fine, thank God'.

'So, what happens now'?

'Oh, I'm going home. Tomorrow'.

'Already'? I was alarmed, knowing how sick he was.

'No choice', he explained, 'insurance won't pay'.

'Oh'?

'No. They dictate everything. Who are these people, anyway'?

'The money people', I said. 'Everything comes down to that'.

'Oh. Well, it's ok. I'm tired of it here. The food sucks', said Ephron, changing the subject.

'Well, in that case...'