Spicebush swallowtail butterflies
veer toward me and pass, meandering,
taking the sun-struck gravel road.
This morning a man spoke haltingly,
but his son said Panasonic, that's
what we'll get. I heard Jennifer call in
the man's tests. Too many scans, too late
a stage, but he wants the TV.
tells the men to enjoy their weekend
and I wish that too, as high as possible
a percentage of sun, iced tea,
the new big screen and movement on it.
What was the reason for my trip
to the clinic and the long drive,
down a rutted lane into Tuckahoe?
Evidence accumulates, blood in vials,
a nurse discarding plastic gloves,
the doctor washing his hands.
Which am I,
a sun-browned woman eating her sandwich
in a lot behind a convenience store
or one who floats, precisely balanced,
not sinking, not rising? Which is there
more of in this world, I wonder,
more pain or more joy?