When tumours come, they come not single spies,
but two at once.
High-grade, aggressive little beasts, they mean
to break out from the organ where they lurk
and do me greater hurt. But now arise
heroic healers — human and machine —
and go to work.
This godless product of genetic chance
must face his fate unshriven, unconfessed.
Some facts encourage, some deny, despair;
the issue is in doubt. As I prepare
to tolerate the incidental pain
(its welcome off-ramp from a downward slope),
amid the choice of treatments they’ll suggest,
I’ll take this simple for my present bane:
to dwell in hope.