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Wednesday, September 11, 2013

SAD*

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SAD*

Etta,  you do not seem to care if I am ill.

Remember last week, when a pinched nerve
Kept me in bed for most of the day?
I could not walk,
I began to panic, and
Believed my back might never be right again.

And your response, terrible, cold and unmoving,
You declared what in my heart was already apparent;
You told me that you had no aspirations,
That if I sought a Florence Nightingale,
I had barked up the wrong tree.

It hurt most, when after a moment’s reflection,
I came to believe your response sounded rehearsed.

It had a tone, which seemed practiced.

You had actually precluded any concern.

I had became lost to pain in an otherwise robust frame,
And you had shown no worry, commiserated not a bit.

Now that my health returns, and I am totally recovered,
I must wonder, no matter how many times
You have claimed that you love me,
If my being ill had not worried you in the least,
What good is it to me to be well again.

*Following an ancient writer’s reflection
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