|
| Cancer Belt
Fingers of death
Poke through my Dad’s skin
Volcanoes of illness
They hint of the end.
Dad sits in his chair
With knobs on his wrist
Feet swollen so tight
It hurts just to twist.
Gentle man that he is
I wonder, such dismay
Just sit there and watch
As his life slips away.
Cancer rings my Dad’s gut
His back full of lumps
His strength is no more
He has no more trumps.
| |
|
