Last night I dreamed of long,
rectangular plastic pill boxes.
Seven little lids with black letters
for each day of the week to make
sure you’re taking the right ones.
His phone call had me worrying
about my test results, my future.
How much can you tell about me
from two vials of dark red blood
and a Dixie cup of my warm piss?
Would he be able to predict that
I have just a few months to live?
Could he find testicular cancer,
a diseased liver or kidney failure?
Would he predict clogged arteries?
Maybe he’ll give me pills, like on TV-
Zocor , Plavix , Lipitor, or Avodart?
Maybe he’ll tell me buy a treadmill,
use fish oil, eat Honey Nut Cheerios,
or to take a little orange baby aspirin.
Would I understand what I had to do
or would I just break down and cry,
regretting all the things I’d done or
would I be angry at myself for all the
things I could’ve or should’ve done?