I stare in the mirror at the hole on my forehead
where the surgeon carved out a cancer.
The hole is the size of a dime,
the colors various shades of red,
oozing white or colorless liquid running
down to my eyebrows, where it drips
like tears to the stubble on my cheeks.
The cancer hole is crying
A part of me gone awry with grief,
knowing that disease can be cured
but that old age gets us all.
The surgeon can cut out the cancer,
but he canít stop me from getting older,
and image in the mirror is not me,
not the young man who, forty years ago,
yearned for wisdom and cavorted
naked in the sun, fearless, boundless,
unaware that time is faultless
and will bring on the surgeons
whether I am ready or not.
I will never be ready,
and the cruel cut where the cancer cries
will soon be an ugly scar
reminding me every time I shave
that regardless of how I protect myself now,
I am dying.
The crying dime on my forehead
oozes one more tear
and I shiver in my nakedness as I
Larry R. Brooks