“You should be dead,” I thought to myself
Slowly regaining my breath
Truly shocked by what I had found
In preop on seeing his chest
He’d lived hard – like me, but older
(not wiser) in experience
Midline scar from a stab, old trach
Tattoos of overindulgence
And the keloid from left to right
Past the sternal depression
From his ER thoracotomy and
Does he have any grasp of his membership
In the Order of the Lebsche Knife1
The mark of those born-again
Restored from a fast-ebbing life?
Does he kneel every day in penance
To atone – pray, sing, and dance
For miraculous reanimation
And impossible second chance?
So I ask, “Do you know how it happened?”
A tale of betrayal and strife?
Says he, “Big deal, I got stabbed,
“Not the worst day of my life…”