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wedding shot 001

 

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.

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