Cancer

My bank makes an error
And I spend the day on hold
Dozing to a jazzy flute,
While my friend gathers his chickens
And plucks the last of his garden.

In his kitchen lit by a candle
And the open stove door
He cleans me out of nickels in five-card draw.
He watches my every sip of beer
As he gulps a blender full of swamp.

When radiation has singed
His last taste bud
He answers the call of the equator,
A barefoot place without banks—

My supper is again interrupted
By a man on the phone who speaks
As if he knows me
And sounds hurt I haven't called back,
Though I thought I'd made enough threats
To be taken off his list.