an old car
covered with dust, a road full of ruts,
a filter that is worn, and ready for discard;
I too may vanish, very soon,
if not sooner.
Henle’s loops are weary also,
and now the poisons accumulate.
The button, installed, is ready,
like a poke in the ribs.
Just demand, and you will get online.
When I came
in out of the rain, I said
I would keep on trying;
it’s like a tennis match
when you’re out of sorts.
All I can do
is raise my arm: “Salutay”, I wave. Am waving.
But that sullen crowd is unresponsive.
It is like when the oncologist
in whom you’ve put your trust
can only shrug and mutter;
his machines, he admits, are useless.
“What they are good for,” he says, ”is to prognosticate.”