Waiting wasn’t a problem for him,
he’d brought something to read, yet sitting
there for almost an hour in the waiting room
at the proctologist’s office, while
the badger in his ass huffed & scratched,
dug & growled (as it had for the last six months)
was enough to fan smoldering piles to flame,
prompt him to plan his wake & epitaph — maybe lift
a line from Carver or Plath.
Hours prior to the appointment,
he’d stood & stared, mesmerized by April rain,
a steady downpour all day:
noticed small buds bulging at the tips
of branches; puddles blooming into murky
ponds; & recalled the pure happiness
he’d felt the night before: lying there
wide awake after crawling back into bed
from his midnight trip to the toilet,
he slipped his arm around her,
pulled into her heat, felt his
heartbeats waltz her breath, & thought:
Who cares what’s next?
The prognosis is death — but tonight,
I’m the luckiest asshole alive.