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Another poem I felt like sharing. Same thing applies as the last one.

After the Diagnosis


Drive home in silence.

Listen carefully for the changes.

Dont be alarmed when your house doesnt know you.

Turn on the television.

It will appear no one has heard the news yet.

Sitcoms carry on,

anchormen missing the days big story.

Enemies have invaded.

The sky is falling

and no reporters are here to cover it.

Lie down. Anxiety may cause malaise.

In your sleep, a dream of bartenders mixing exotic cocktails,

the pharmacists shouting last call.

Wake up feeling like a friend is in trouble.

Walk the rest of the day in your own shoes.

Cut the price tag off the hat.

Start smoking cigarettes.

Kiss your husband.

Tell him you dont want your dry cleaning picked up.

Tell him the dust on the floor is art.

Tell him the mold on the cheese is symbolic.

Tell him your love is locked in a box for its own protection.

Make a sandwich.

Two slices of whole wheat,




thinly sliced vehemence.

Eat by yourself.

Youll find the company incomparable.

Or eat with friends, should any come by.

They will want to hear the funniest joke.

Dont tell it.

Open the window, as wide as possible.

Blind yourself in the sunset.

Brush your teeth like it matters.

Brush your hair while you still can.

Take a cloth and wash the days dismay off your face.

Crawl into bed.

Prop the pillows.

Practice lying still.

In your sleep,

you dream the pharmacist has hidden your hat,

the bartenders whisper, tonight, there is no last call.


Lori Davis


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