At the hospital in the
cancer care center
with my mom, an old
man, with a soft voice
and a British accent gets
wheeled in and is placed
on the chair beside us.
He has a blank look on
his face, his lips move and
I hear a slight murmur as
he begins talking to himself.
The nurse goes over and he
rolls up his sleeves as she looks
for a good vein in his left arm,
the right one too badly bruised;
a dark purple. He winces in pain
as she sticks him with the needle
drawing blood. The nurse asks
him about his birthday and says
she’s also a July baby, born on the
14th, he replies and says his is on the
27th. My mom tells them mine is also
on the 27th and although we were born
on the same day, I hope we don’t share
the same death; as he continues to fight,
and I sit here wondering why.
David Boski lives in Toronto. His poems have appeared in: Ramingo’s Porch, Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily, North Of Oxford, Cacti Fur and elsewhere. His chapbook, Fist Fighting and Fornication, is out now and available through Holy&intoxicated Publications.