Jenna Le

Hidden from me among the untrimmed trees,
my hound bemoans the hundred vicious fleas
that burrow in the roots of his red hair.
The fleas are as invisible as air.
Better, I say, to be beset by bees.

You see, I’m a physician:  on all days,
folks stroll into my office and strip bare.
No mole, no wound, no grief nor worry stays
hidden from me.

I know all their aches and anxieties;
I know each time they sob, each time they sneeze.
This almost atones for the fact that you, dear-
est of friends, in a not-long-distant year,
kept your fast-acting terminal disease
hidden from me.