There comes a time
when it melts like overripe squash.
I hope I have forgotten my medicine.
If so, I hope it works immediately.
If not, I surely won’t make it.
Most times the former,
and so far I’ve made it.
Terror comes at those frequent times
when it is known
they don’t make medicine for me.
stillfugue 
#1 by liv2write2day on February 10, 2011 - 12:45 pm
I understand those feelings of fear and the what if’s and remember the days when we didn’t have those meds. You express this well in this poem.
#2 by Carl on February 10, 2011 - 8:31 pm
Thank you so much, Victoria! Your comments mean the world to me.
#3 by siubhan on February 10, 2011 - 5:22 pm
That’s a scary place you’re talking about/from. this piece is strong from start to finish. very strong.
#4 by Carl on February 10, 2011 - 8:32 pm
Thank you so much for your comment.
#5 by Evelyn on February 10, 2011 - 7:31 pm
Yes, absolutely.
big sighs.
#6 by Carl on February 10, 2011 - 8:37 pm
yes, sigh, sigh, sigh…
#7 by Marian on February 10, 2011 - 10:54 pm
you know, i know this poem is about something else but i am way all stuck on the image of overripe squash melting. like, i know what that is. that is slow and a bit decadent. i let them melt a little, and then put them outside in the cold to arrest the decay. ah, whatever.
#8 by Carl on February 11, 2011 - 6:27 am
My goodness! You have a sharp mind. If I sit in a snow bank today, will I arrest the sadness? Maybe. My Chiropractor tells me to ice my neck and it works okay.
#9 by Margaret on February 12, 2011 - 11:59 am
Hope is not always so elusive. That poem does what it means to do.
#10 by Carl on February 13, 2011 - 7:59 am
Thank you for commenting, Margaret!