Every Third Thursday
As the hours March on to Thursday
people try to reassure me that I'm almost
there - just one more stop to go -
after this, the penultimate punishment.
But penultimate means still
two more. Six weeks
of feeling sick, drug side-effects
accumulating in the system.
Penultimate, or not -
I keep thinking about Thursday.
District nurse says, sensibly - Tick off
every thing accomplished as another
step behind you on your journey to recovery.
But a neighbour threw me yesterday,
'So have they told you
what your chances of survival are?'
I told her that I'm still not sure. I hadn't thought
that far ahead, I'll let her know, if
and when I'm going to cark it.
And a friend brings dubious comfort
with deep spiritual wisdom -
'All of us are going to die,
and none of us knows when, or why...'
Lifespan's predetermined, she believes,
so what's the use of worrying?
But I'm not fretting over lifespans -
I'm just thinking about Thursday,
and dreading it.