a.k.a. janetb | |||||||||||||||||
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Chemo In the waiting room- the contradiction of healthy hair over pallor or turbans tied with the perfection that comes with practice and no one is fooled by the kid with the shaved head he's one too, part of the legion getting on with everyday routines and being here has become routine. Amid the muted shades of gray we mingle small talk with our collective war story. We gather like relatives at a wedding or wake, embracing each other in our plate armored hope, buffed daily to a high gloss. Look. I can adjust my wig in its reflection. | ||||||||||||||||
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Junkie just another backstage plainjane nodded out Southern Comfort sweet and acrid baby needing friends to show what it was like to bleed feather boa blues stomping stoned spiked counterculture queen of the Fillmore stagefrightened and always holding her face told her story in a few deep lines vexatious broad held hostage by heroin just another nobody pinned down and desperate for that ever cheering drift | ||||||||||||||||
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Dad you're almost unrecognizable in a suit and tie and the familiar feel of your bicep is sinewed cold a sallow complexion pink and healthy where are the dark circles I inherited? oh they cut your hair short like you always wore it before it grew wild and matted from illness and bedrest and the photo we gave them was recent you smiling in a hospital gown pointing to the surgical scar down your chest we counted the staples and joked about them but Dad, they left side burns big ones like Elvis with makeup smeared on them making them reddish not gray and they pulled your face smooth and peaceful unfurled your scowl lines but didn't hide the holes in your hands from the iv's and you never held a rosary that I can remember | ||||||||||||||||
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