differential diagnosis

stethoscopes dangle
from the neck of the nurse
as she reads me the warning of another round
of this hell-bound journey I’m on, treading
waters that wreak of rotten dreams and forgotten
names of victims fallen to a common cold
that escalated over-night
into a life terminated, desecrated,
humiliated by the blows
of this fight
I can’t win,
so I reach for my styrofoam cup
but the ice has melted
and my tea tastes like faint shadows
of leaves with a hint of raspberry seeds
clumped in the straw,
still I sip the last drip of normality
before I sign the line and date today
knowing tomorrow was never
a guarantee.