Poem: The Battle
as a Minnesota lake at dawn, before the first fisherman
has revved his outboard motor,
inwardly the armies rage, warring viciously,
like Macedonians conquering Persia — like
imperialist sophisticates showing dark-skinned peoples
The body functions, yes, by all appearances it does, beautifully, and with an efficiency
that would please Henry Ford.
But the hidden truth, known only to those who suffer,
is too violent to assess.
The good will win, we hope (and sometimes pray).
But in the interregnum, the worry persists that this innocuous cough,
this nasal drip, this nagging pain,
will be the last.