Relentless
Robert Okaji
In my youth I might have stayed there, drinking beer
until the cows came in or someone started
a fight. But today, one pint and a Caesar
salad was all I needed. Then I limped back
to the hotel, made a cup of strong coffee,
and wrote. What is the point, I ask. Nobody
answers, which is, of course, the point. No one hears
those fallen trees and poets, except the trees
and poets. The cancer is spreading. Thus far
I've managed to dodge most of the indignities
inherent in this illness. But they're coming.
Oh, they're coming.
I was diagnosed with a terminal illness some sixteen months ago. Thanks to the wonders of modern science, I'm still here, still breathing, still writing, for Pete's sake! What's the point of it? Who cares? Does anyone? What's the point of anything? But still, I continue doing what I'm doing—writing—sometimes painfully, with a little less grace, and slowly, grudgingly, because it's what I do. It's who I am.
ROBERT OKAJI has late stage metastatic lung cancer, which he finds terribly annoying. His poetry may be found in Threepenny Review, Vox Populi and other venues.