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I never take calls when I'm with a patient, except today when the phone rings from Boston-liver mets on his scan, biopsy tomorrow...
I never take calls when I’m with a patient
except today when the phone rings from Boston-
liver mets on his scan, biopsy tomorrow.
Yet he’s happy to be alive, walking down
cobblestone streets scented with smoke
from roasted chestnuts and baking bread,
a street musician on the corner singing
Leonard Cohen, students sipping coffee
and thumbing cell phones in restless cafes.
He feels wind in hair that grew back,
and he is heading for the harbor where
sailboats tack and noon sky glows royal blue.
And he wants to know how the autumn
hills at home look from the window
that framed our first view of his diagnosis.
We both cried that day and I’m crying now,
telling him I’m sorry, telling him October
Mountain burns scarlet, the Berkshire sky
empty and serene, nothing but royal blue.