Wallace and Ladmo

A state or rather
the condition of
mycobacterium, ruptured
in the summer one year:
poppy seeds, black small
unmanageable.
They never explained
and just disappeared one day,
sent me riding
through four hours
of farmland in Aunt Peg's Nova.
She could care less,
her silence a verdict.

Seemed weeks of watching
Gram play solitaire,
old friend crutch
lanking at her bedroom door,
eating burned meat
lots of eggs, my first
tuna fish sandwich,
good TV all day in the city.

Saturday Grandma took
me to the old ladies hair salon.
I ended up looking like my brother
who got the better end
of the deal playing trains
with Uncle Everett, ten miles across
Phoenix like an ocean.

Tuberculosis must be dark,
it must hurt
because I sure did.

Now twenty some years later
I can see all those Vets
on the respiratory wing
coughin' and laughin' it up.
Must have been a great summer,
no kids, good TV all day in the city,
cigarettes still sweet.

She used to remind me
every now and then, TB
stays with you all your life.
Yeah mom, I know.

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