Every four months I sit, patient br On such hard wooden benches br As are thought suitable for bearers br Of many kinds of cancer br Without complaint, in companionship br Waiting for a scan br br Thinking of the days when br Pensions, even indigestion br Were issues of concern br When there were no prompts or spurs br To consider the golden nature br Of a moment, an embrace br br When I was not yet impelled br To weigh the meaning of the past br To attempt to crack the poet's code br To hold life so lovingly br In carefully cupped hands, as if br Nursing a wounded bird br br Every four months, a similar parade br Of thoughts, by now familiar: br Having no fear of tiny shapes br Buried in my photograph br And in my bones belief that I br Am plotted at the far end of the curve br On the standard graph of life and time, br So blessed, entirely fortunate br br Afraid only to be not free br To be at distance from a dream br Held back from the soul's pursuit br Of what my eyes call beautiful br Of what would make a better thing br Of what we call the world br br And now the round white tube, wherein br The music of the working day falls still, br Embraces me. I risk falling asleep br Until, with a trace of irony, br The recorded voice cries 'breathe! '.