After The Diagnosis

By Annette Opalczynski

After the diagnosis,
dirty dishes pile up in the sink,
but the dog still needs her walk.
She pokes me with her cold, wet nose:
Remember me?
Outside, she runs,
pulling me forward,
her ears flapping in the breeze.
My neighbor waves
when we go past him,
mowing his lawn
in his bare feet.
At the corner,
we pause
to watch the kids playing
their daily basketball game.
Along the fence
wild honeysuckle blooms.

Reading of September 30, 2007