October, 2011

Poetry

My Father's Immunotherapy

I dream of T-cells now.
A bag is hanging. Full.
Dripping from an IV.
Cascading through the veins.
They target. They kill.
Most important: They summon.
The body itself to cure itself.

The answer is within. Not external.
It is not unlike business.
The cancer tricks the immune system
Into thinking the cancer is not a problem.
Much as we can blind ourselves
To the cause of our problems.
It is the recession or the competitor or the bank.
Maybe, but waiting for an outside answer is futile.

We have to find our own strength.
See the enemies within.
Summon the capacity to focus and overcome.
Not just business. But life.
Our weaknesses lie not in the stars, but in ourselves.

Freud said Love and Work are
The cornerstones of our humanness.
Yet we are human, even if troubled.
So we can find the path to Love and Work
By seeing within, clearly.
Yet we sometimes do not.
So we sometimes need a lover or a co-worker
Or a medicine to awaken the passions within.

A T-cell is dripping... to announce it has found the problem,
And with Will, one can prevail.
Hemingway asked the question: Isn’t it pretty to think so?