“Got no time to be afraid,”
said the balancing waitress,
bacon and eggs on four plates.
We’re eating breakfast at the diner,
you are talking
and I begin this poem.
You are thinner, more tests says the doctor.
The only things between me and death
are these words,
as long as I carry them around
and write them down, you won’t die,
and as long as I write and write,
the words will still fall over us
like a snow shower in May,
the day we sat in the car at Schiller Park,
and watched the wind blow
snowflakes like dandelion fluff onto new green grass,
tiny ice fell on us, a faint crinkle, melting on the glass.
–MINNIE BRUCE PRATT