Only when confidence in our invulnerability is challenged do we appreciate that, in our hierarchy of needs, good health sits at the summit, and almost all other aspects of our lives fall into place beneath it.
I wrote this poem last year with a particular outcome in mind for the protagonist. On rereading it, however, I see that outcome as open to an alternative interpretation.
Let the reader decide.
Doctor speaks in euphemisms
and she only partly listens,
then she’s outside on the pavement
where the passersby ignore her.
Just another hapless patient,
numb beyond the point of weeping,
breathing stale air, never sweeter,
seeing beauty all about her.