Cancer #012
(Yesterday Is The Only Day
Not Hard To Face)

I'm tired of being ill,
of constantly being poked,
and prodded,
of having shots, or
pin-pricks they're wont to say –
I'd love to pin-prick them,
teach them about needle bites,
about insects wielding steel
proboscis', about
how it feels to be spiked
seemingly every time
you draw a breath.
I'm tired of being sick, nauseated,
my stomach feeling like rocks,
are tumbling within,
of being bloated beyond belief.
I'm tired.

I'm . . . just . . . Tired

and wish it would all . . .
just go away.


I have a place I call
my life vault,
where I keep
the most important thing
to me, stored.

My life.

It's a present –
from God.
And I have been
slowly chipping away
at the vast wealth
He put there,
for 'nigh on seventy-eight years –
just as he planned on me doing.

And although I feel
the first three stanzas of this piece,
I will gladly spend the rest
of the allotment He has allowed me,
gladly, without question,
broadly smiling
every time I'm allowed
another withdrawal.

One day leads to another,
then another,
and several more, and
I'll take every damn one I can get,
laughing joyfully
the whole time

with every withdrawal I'm given.
.
.
.
.
© wesley james beard, jr.
march 21, 2021