The Diagnosis

In his eyes is the mark of time almost infinite

skin and veins and his tired limbs

reflect the struggle of disappointing years

strained heart has long borne the weight

of love and love lost and love remembered.

Sweet rot of breath fogs mirror

staring back this not real reality

a face hardly recognized until

a smile or play grimace reveals

filled teeth or a dried tear beside one eye

inconvenient hair misarranged

too thin on top, too think in funny places.

Humor in the face of the macabre.

It’s something in the blood

old relatives mocked death before their departure,

something in this soupy blood

his body makes from a recipe inherited.

In the movie the dark fog descends from the sky

old testament god’s revenge upon Egyptian innocents,

slowly slithering through narrow adobe warrens

seeping through cracks of doors unadorned with the sacrifice

mercilessly taking the life of the first born.

Is there such an insidious agent that acts

like this genocide on an individual’s body,

fractal-like in its mimicry of social destruction

wreaking havoc and self-immolation on living cells?

A life is this long long collection

of memory and experience

as ancient as childhood, as new as now

the next day begins

desire as yet unrealized

ambition as yet unattained.

What a laugh, to dream of driving fate.

Hubris to order the human trajectory.

Folly to interpret the memoir

while the ticking can be heard

deep below the din of days.

The fuse though unseen

has already received the spark.

The ticking can surely be heard

if he listens carefully and knows what he hears.

Curse or redemption of genetic transference ,

contained in this inherited blood.

Bad news this visit to the doctor.

He now knows how he will die.

Dreading this outcome, feared for years.

He will pass the way of this father’s family.