Here’s a short little poem I wrote the other day, after my latest consultation with my doc.
At the Driver’s License Bureau
Yesterday the doctor said
we’ve beat you up pretty bad,
but if we stop treatment now
you have three months.
The transplants are risky
and it’s going to be hard on you,
very hard, but its your only chance.
Certain death in a few months
or one chance in three of a cure
if you survive the procedures.
Today, I sit amongst young men
with nose rings, gangly teenage girls
and young Hispanic couples,
waiting to renew my driver’s license
for another five years.
