David Lohrey/Writings, Musings, Poetry


New Orleans Review

Saturday, the 19th or the 20th

Surgery is scheduled. I got the green light.
They’ll slice me open next Friday.
He says it will be dangerous.
I could die. The main worry
will be post-op blood clots.
One of those and I’d be a goner.

Are you ready?
Ready? Ready for what?
Ready for surgery? Ready for death?
The doctor enters, holds my hand,
and asks if I’d like a little something
to relieve the pain. I’ll be dead in a few hours.

Are you ready to go?
What an absurdity to say you’re
in your prime. You’re not in good
shape, even if you can hit the ball.
The Golden Years are over. When
her mother died at 93, Andrea
took steps to sue the hospital. She thought
her mother was good for another ten.

By ninety, it’s time. You take a…

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