Cancer too is a prize
You don’t have to queue at the newsagent’s
to buy a ticket
They slip it in with the teddy bear,
the beatrix potter china setting,
the first photograph album,
The final draw may be foreshadowed
in the missed stitch in the booties
put aside, only used at your Baptism.
(“It was her last pair. Do you think she knew?”)
Unlike the contents of your bowels
or your most recent projectile vomit,
it is not discussed in polite company.
You can read the rest of my cancer poem here. It is a change from poems about tv shows, I suppose.
I will not be posting as much as I once did. I am attempting to spend more time on writing fiction. As they say in the classics, life is short, time to get my finger out and have a red hot go. Two funerals this week, though caring for a sick person I could only get to one. It tends to focus the mind.