KIDNAPPING GODOT

by Richard Fox

Cartoon by Tom Gauld.

"People are bloody ignorant apes." 

—Estragon in Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett

1. Polio

Mom makes pancakes for breakfast on a Wednesday.

Gives me a gorilla hug at the bus stop.

At school, we hang up coats, march to the All-Purpose Room.

The nurse smiles, watches us down cups of clear liquid. 

The principal anoints each forehead with a gold star. 

2. Cancer

Mothers quiz me about Gardasil* for daughters. 

I endure HPV*-caused tumors, 

so pegged their expert.

My plea, heed pediatricians.

Inoculate girls and boys by age eleven.

They choose to delay, let their kids ripen. 

Maybe by sixteen, the children can decide.

3. Ba’al

Carthage

the field of stones 

chiseled memorials

first born sons

throats slit

* Gardasil is a vaccine that prevents the HPV virus from causing oral and cervical cancer. Anti-vaxxers promote false research that a side effect is autism. Because HPV is spread sexually (not necessarily via intercourse), they claim the vaccine is tacit approval for teenage sex.

When not writing about rock ’n roll or youthful transgressions, Richard Fox focuses on cancer from the patient’s point of view drawing on hope, humor, and unforeseen gifts. He is the author of five poetry collections and the winner of the 2017 Frank O’Hara Prize.

FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SEESAW

by Richard Fox

“SeeSaw” by Leyla Murr (2009)

Ronnie approaches me. I point the tip of my cane at him.
Oops, he says. Forgot you’re one of those social distancing freaks.
Don’t worry, You walk your side of the street and I’ll walk mine.

I wear a mask and face shield. His face is uncovered.
He sneezes. No problem, man. Just allergies.

I lower my cane, ask Ronnie how he’s doing with the quarantine.
He shakes his head, steps towards me, stops, hold his palms out.

Oops. Keep screwing up. I can’t deal with this Coronavirus crap.
How many people you know who’ve died? How many had their lives messed up?
Like me. I’m down to three days a week at work. Masks are mandatory.
My boss comes by when I have mine down—trying to get some oxygen—
sends me home. I lose another day’s pay for this bullshit.

He spits on the sidewalk. I twirl my cane.

Like, you need a mask. You’re sick—so protect yourself. That’s cool.
But why do healthy people have to wear them? Don’t I have rights?

I wonder how his family’s doing.

Little Kenny and I watch Korean baseball. Only game in town.
Daphne complains. Wants to do jigsaw puzzles or watch kid’s movies.
Thinks we should take this opportunity to paint the inside of the house.
I’m tired from all this doing nothing. Can’t go out to eat. Or to the bar.
Hey—did you sell your Prius? My Porsche is for sale.

I tell him my license was pulled after neurosurgery. Deficient vision.

Oh wow. You’re stuck home—forever. That sucks.
But hey—how you doing with that cancer?

I answer—stable.

Oh wow! You’re in remission? Outstanding. Congratulations!

I say, No, not remission. Stable. Cancer’s still in my lungs.
It’s not going but it’s not growing.

Damn it! replies Ronnie. Oh man, that’s shitty. I’m sorry I asked.
Not trying to upset you—you look great, especially for...um...

I think, someone who’s dying. Flash an invisible grin.

Nah, Ronnie. Stable is excellent cancer news.
A good scan means ninety days on vacation until the next one.
Like the Red Sox, I get to play this summer.

I swing my cane like a Louisville Slugger.


When not writing about rock ’n roll or youthful transgressions, Richard Fox focuses on cancer from the patient’s point of view drawing on hope, humor, and unforeseen gifts. He is the author of four poetry collections, the latest embracing the burlesque of collateral damage (Big Table, 2020). His poem "Skating on the Edge of Flesh" won the 2017 Frank O'Hara Award.

A DAY IN PANDEMIA

by Richard Fox

I.

Suit up like an astronaut exploring a poison planet.

Fasten a fabric mask over my mouth and nose.

Mount a helmet with face shield on my head.

Slip harness on Bailey, snap leash into clip.

Slide on latex gloves. Turn the key, open door. 

Step into the airlock disguised as porch.

Morning walk. few wear protective gear.

Neighbors stroll elbow-to-elbow, whisper in ears. 

Bailey receives greetings. For me—smiles, smirks.

My steps set a meter. Words dance into lines.

Bailey stops to sniff. I memorize a stanza.

Laughter shatters my reverie.

A teen girl yells, No way anybody’s quarantining me.

Three families surround her, lips uncovered.

Kids play tag, mark IT by rolling on the lawn.

II.

March into the hospital, obey taped lines, six feet apart.

Nurse takes my temperature. Asks screening questions.

Disinfects my hands. Double-checks my mask.

The long lobby—chairs, tables barren.

One person to an elevator.

Approaching patients hug opposite walls.

Podiatrist’s waiting room. Three out of four chairs blocked.

We may sit, satisfactorily spaced, sucking air through masks.

The coatrack, verboten. No magazines or solitary games.

Exam room surfaces shine, sealed sterile packets covered. 

Nurse removes my protective sandals, socks.

Puts a spacer next to my right big toe.

The doctor rolls near, picks at a cuticle.

Pus leaking out from under nail. Infected. Must remove. 

He disinfects, injects, waits for lidocaine to numb.

Hey doc, thanks for seeing me. This is my big day out.

He grins. You’re keeping me in business. The wards are empty.

Even the COVID-19 unit has fewer beds filled.

He begins cutting, yanking the nail. Patients refuse to come 

to the hospital for critical tests. Friend of mine, cardiologist, lost 

a patient yesterday. Guy kept postponing appointments. 

My friend begged him to come in. Safe here. It’s all statistics. 

What will kill you first. Patient died at home. Massive MI.

Podiatrist bandages my wound. 

III.

Home, my couch. Prop foot up on pillows. Read the Post: 

people—me—with malignancies  in lungs, three times 

more likely to die from Coronavirus.  Time for supper.

When not writing about rock ’n roll or youthful transgressions, Richard Fox focuses on cancer from the patient’s point of view drawing on hope, humor, and unforeseen gifts. He is the author of four poetry collections and the winner of the 2017 Frank O’Hara Prize.