Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Surgery

Surgery
My dad reveals the reason for his pain Veins bulge out of the tissue Veins create a bridge over the tissue One bridge stretches like the Golden Gate Stretches over the bay of muscle and tissue below it Except it’s clogged Always rush hour If the jam restricts oxygen His heart rate jumps as oxygen decreases No ski trip into the thin mountain air Then, the kicker He’s having open heart surgery He’s 46. Not 70. Not old enough. Not frail enough. So young in comparison. February 2016. I’m enjoying my Saturday. My dad is at the hospital The surgery is likely to go well He’s not old enough to suffer complications Those who don’t make it are old They have more than just a bad heart Nerves. Nerves. Calm. I take my mind off it. I’m glad I have no control. The surgery is over. My dad did great. A few days in the hospital. He goes home to a recliner even I’m jealous of. A year later, he’s healing well He’s back to himself No chest pain



1 comment:

  1. I really liked the personal aspect of this poem, and how you emphasized on the traffic leading as a sort of clogged bridge.

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