The bladder is not
to blame,
the mitamycin
is to blame,
and before
that,
BCG, or
bovine tuberculosis,
and
before that,
cancer,
and before that
the doctor who
diagnosed you
and before that
the other doctor
who misdiagnosed
you and before
that, radon, grilling,
Baltimore,
and before that
me,
of course,
and before that,
family history,
dumb luck,
the country we swim in
pumped full
of chemicals.
My finger is almost
as red and
tired
as his bladder
having pointed itself
to death.
It has poked
suspiciously
at the poisonous
world,
taken inventory
even in my sleep,
testing each thing
to see
which makes
the most
sense, looking
for the foot
that fits this
shoe.
What or who
did this to you?
Oh, but I wonder,
what is the point?
To increase suffering?
Invite more guilt?
Deepen regret?
If only you hadn’t
worked
in the leather factory?
But you never worked
in the leather factory!
If only you had worked
in the leather factory
and smoked
a few cigarettes
along the way,
so we could, for that brief
surreal stint in the doctor’s
tiny cockpit, sigh
ohhhh that
before taking off
to points
unknown.