Errol Flynn, every Zorro since,
made it seem so elegant:
a morning duel, an afternoon rescue,
a quiet tea and a brandy after,
his sword, his horse, his comforts
distancing him from fear and fiction.
You have done the same with cancer,
carving your Z, having your tea, and
when the threat returns, carving again
without the benefit of a flowing cape,
wearing your mask lower, converting
your dusty arena into a sterile room
where you can stand upright
fighting disease, praying that more
than equal skill will cure your own,
and everyone else’s worry will vanish
in the expected, well-rehearsed victory
before we empty the theater.