| Lumps mean
cancer and we
are afraid as when
my ex-Mother
in law ignored her
lump that turned
to cancer that turned to
stroke that turned to left
side paralysis that turned to
me taking care
of her for three
years that turned to
my ex-wife, lioness,
Queen of the lion's
den, leading the lions in
devouring their young, old step
father, me, that turned to
Love, of another
woman far better,
who turned my
life around even
before, who lights up
my big new
world with her smile that turns to
the sunrise over and over
again
each time
now, each time the first
time, the best time
over and over again
dizzying, the light smile
of the dawn and the
dark.
But this Lump is
not cancer and I
am not afraid:
this Lump is a
62 year-old who
Runs a deli
in Bethlehem,
Pennsylvania and he makes
Trenton takes the best
Denver omelet I have
ever had, though he
is so far away
from Colorado as he
joshes in his "Lump's"
tee-shirt with four out-of
work steelworkers damn plant
closed 16 years ago who wear
their "Longwood High School" shirts
proud at 70 and 80
and 63 and they
let me in
tease me kindly
as I wait to arrive
not too
early
to help a friend
move at 10 am because
I have a pick-up
Truck and I am
Kind and I
Am only
49. The boys they
want to know what
I think of suspected
terrorists being semi-
abused by their Army guards
at Guantanamo Bay,
about Bush dropping so
low in approval
ratings. "How f—ing sad
is that?" Mo wants to
know. "We used to be
the best damn
country and now
those f—ers
are laughing at
us, at f—ing us," he spits
tobacco in disgust.
Lump, our lump, says
"Damn straight," then sells
lottery tickets to an old
lady who rings bells as
she walks
through his lumpy door and he
warns under his
breath, "watch the fucking
f—bombs." And then she
is gone, gone off, perhaps
to not win the
lottery and I chuck one
old high school hero
on his shoulder which
feels surprisingly
soft and
rounded through his
worn cotton shirt
and he smiles a weak
smile, not yet defeated
full of grace
and coffee and eggs.
I piss, wash hands
which is wise for I
shake hands with
the Lump man, make a
moment of his day by
ranking his omelet very
high and I
am gone with this,
this: we're really all
talking about the same,
same thing,
same thing, always:
love,
our hearts
my would-be woman, please God,
bringing light to the
world with one of her
thousand smiles.
When I tell the Lump
man I love his
omelet well, I am
telling him the one
thing I love
him too, love them
all. And then I am gone
and three days later
my friend Stephen and
his light-bringer are well
moved.
My muscles are sore
I have played some
softball games since
then, starred in one almost
like "The Natural" with lightening
in the distant heat,
impending humid rain about to
come for days, rivers
about to rise beyond
their banks, a flood
of emotion that is one truth
unassailable, the one
truth I have been
searching for all
my life, this truth:
you are my reason
for drawing breath,
and I wish
you were there,
to see it all
with me.
And I wish
she were there.
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