At this point, I can’t say
how long ago it was
when the doctor hinted
that, slowly, I was dying.
Hell, aren’t we all?
I thought. The body fails.
The heart stops
The soul drifts away.
His words,
“meandering
towards
treatment . . .
stage II,
stage III,
stage IV,”
were a blur,
followed
by months
of intrusions
that left
my right arm,
at the elbow’s bend,
dark and bruised,
like a Blues song
where deep purple
fades to a sad grey.
A lot
of years
have passed
and here I am,
still on the road,
heading for the
inevitable —
whatever colour
that may be.
Russell Dupont is the author of three novels; a short story collection; two collections of poetry and four chapbooks. His work has been published in numerous journals. He is also an artist whose works are in both public and private collections.