CHRONIC

                    My fingers were just kneading at my thigh
                    Where I’ve a little knot of pain that stays.
                    I’m wishing it will vanish by and by,
                    But it’s persisted now for several days,
                    Perhaps a side-effect, my doctor said,
                    Of some pill that I’m taking presently,
                    Not something ominous I need to dread:
                    A spreading of the cancer now in me.
                    I tested that, but still found no relief—
                    Though now, distracted by my writing, I
                     No longer apprehend that chronic grief
                     For reasons I can only wonder why,
                          Oh, there it is again—I guess it’s chronic.
                          I hope that I can find some potent tonic.

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