March 30 – April 5, 2015: Janet Buck and Daniel J Fitzgerald

Falling Bricks & Cinder Blocks

It’s weird how people talk to me,
open up like crab legs on a messy plate
without a cracker in their hands.
Maybe it’s because I limp,
they think I know what falling bricks
and cinder blocks feel like on a tender head.

Even my GYN, busy putting on his gloves,
points above his cute bow tie
and asks me if I notice gray.
He tries to help me find the stirrups for my feet;
my fake right knee won’t bend at all
without the force of gravity. So we chat
while his muscles flex to force and cram
the metal parts into waiting heel cups.

We don’t need nurses in the room:
we’re past quick sex on countertops,
simply fight the stinking curse
of using a walker or a cane.
He asks me if I publish things
concerning growing old and all:
I tell him to Google my name
with phrases such as "crapping out."
Neither of us can stifle a laugh.

I caution him to buy bananas green and firm
from lengthy lines in grocery stores,
because our clocks are speeding up
and who wants drool and mushy food.
Stuff your turkey in August heat;
you never know if you’ll remember recipes
when cold November comes around.
The patient scheduled after me
is rolling in by wheelchair.

I like my doctor a lot because he reads
and flies to Tanzania land
to watch The Great Migration flow−
the crest of evolution’s plan, death and all−
where smitten birds and eaten beasts
are not put into nursing homes.

He’s not afraid to dip his hands in deep red blood;
he has the strength to face the cliffs we’re hanging from.

All The Trees Were Still

All the trees were still
until
one leaf moves,
caught in the breathing of the wind
whispering your name.