Masquerade
By day I masquerade as a professional,
Every hair in place, expensive briefcase at my side.

But as night falls, so does my charade.
Deftly I peel off my wig,
Freeing my bald head to cool with relief.
Then I carefully strip off my eyebrows.
Finally I take off my prosthesis,
That false breast that allows others
To forget I have cancer.

I ease into my soothing fleece warm-up suit,
Settle deep into the pillows of my favorite chair,
And sigh, sometimes with pleasure,
Sometimes with exhaustion
But always with relief from playing a role I never auditioned for.

I watch the embers glow and fade in the fireplace
And send my soul into deepest relaxation.
When tomorrow dawns,
My costume is ready.
The show goes on.

________

Used Parts
Time to take inventory in the used parts department.
Time to take pen in hand and count the missing limbs:

5 full breasts (one C cup)
2 whole kidneys (more than enough for beef and kidney pie)
2 portions of lung (slightly discolored)
A complete set of reproductive organs (hardly ever used except on weekends)
And a small basket of lumpectomies and lymph nodes in all shapes and sizes.

Time to admit these are just not going to sell.
I guess it's time to write them off: Human Depreciation

________

Paris 2000
There is a time
Outside of time
An iridescent bubble shimmering
Before its brilliance bursts.

And so it is
On vacation with cancer.
Feeling the cobbled streets of Paris under your feet
And the heat simmering and rising in the Place de Notre Dame
And smelling sweet cappuccino, steaming under colored umbrellas
Dotting the sidewalk cafes like festive circus balloons.

And you walk and you walk
Watching the endless human stream:
Lovers languidly strolling on the banks of the Seine.
Old women, hunched over canes,
Mouths moving silently, drawn to the spired Cathedral.
Young people, flagged in brilliant colors and fueled by rollerblades,
Slicing swiftly through the crowd with the careless ease of youth.
And there, on a bench under a tree, rests a young woman Quietly nursing her baby,
Oblivious to the human carnival swirling around her.

And you breathe this all in.
And you shudder with joy.

So you shoulder your luggage and heave it into a locker,
Shoving the heaviest bag,
Weighted with CAT scans, tumor markers, and terror,
Into the cold metallic bin.
You listen to the clatter of the coins as you lock the door
And—without a backward glance—
Stride confidently into the streets.
Your bag will be there when you return.

________

They Mean Well

"Have a positive attitude."
"I already do.
I'm absolutely positive I hate cancer."

________

View from the Chemo Chair
What I could see from where I stood,
Were three chemo nurses up to no good.
Mixing their potions with devilish glee,
They turned toward the chairs looking for me.

Carrying needles of every size,
They hoped to catch my veins by surprise.
But even with all of their cleverest tricks,
My veins rolled away, needing two sticks.

Next came those hours trapped in the chair
With a blood pressure here and a catheter there.
And whenever they said not to move my IV,
My body invariably needed to pee.

I chatted with the others, snug in their chairs,
Some reading books; others saying prayers.
We shared all our secrets to stop side effects:
Like soy and shark cartilage with broccoli flecks.

As I glanced at the patients, curled up in their chairs,
I wondered what protocols they each called theirs...