Taped all around, two
capped plastic lines
protrude from the hole
in his neck, lifelines
for the infused chemo
that sustains, that kills.
Killing good and bad
indiscriminately, albeit
instantly, inadvertantly
turning his stomach,
tearing down muscle
control, his strength,
messing with his mind,
his balance.
Swollen feet barely fit
in double-wide loafers,
a cane helps stabilize,
doesn't prevent lurches
against walls, bruised
arms, sudden falls.
He sleeps more,
eats less, loses
weight and interest
in moving, in living.
first published in The Penwood Review
©2020 Bonnie Manion