Nowhere else to go

Eddie, an old high school classmate
has begun home hospice
his daughter posts on Facebook.
His prostate cancer has finally got
the better of him but please
keep your thoughts and prayers coming.

Ed’s been struggling a while with this demon
didn’t make it to the 50th Reunion last year
but “I’m not giving up fighting the fight of my life”
he wrote in an email to me.

We were not friends in high school.
He was Mr. Popularity, captain of the football team
President of the Key Club and Boosters, voted
Most likely to succeed . . .
And me, well not so much.

 

 

 

About the Author: Michael Estabrook is a recently retired baby boomer child-of-the-sixties poet freed finally after working 40 years for “The Man” and sometimes “The Woman.” No more useless meetings under florescent lights in stuffy windowless rooms. Now he’s able to devote serious time to making better poems when he’s not, of course, trying to satisfy his wife’s legendary Honey-Do List.

Faith

We thought he was a goner
honestly
the cancer taking a kidney
gall bladder a piece of his vena cava
and who knows what else.

He thought he was a goner too
made his will
the day before the operation
from his hospital bed
called everyone with sorrowful
goodbyes
the fear and uncertainty straining
in his voice.
The surgery was a success
relief and ecstasy
blessings all around
only a few microscopic bad cells
remaining
to be cleaned up by radiation
and chemo.
He already has a renewed belief
in God and his only begotten Son
and a vow to attend church
again.

 

 

About the Author: Michael Estabrook is a recently retired baby boomer child-of-the-sixties poet freed finally after working 40 years for “The Man” and sometimes “The Woman.” No more useless meetings under florescent lights in stuffy windowless rooms. Now he’s able to devote serious time to making better poems when he’s not, of course, trying to satisfy his wife’s legendary Honey-Do List.

timelessness

The Brewster’s Ladies’ Library started
by two ladies 150 years ago
is still going strong. My mother
volunteers there, holds the record
for the most volunteer hours worked
during the year.

“I love this place,” she says
as we leave the book stacks and wander back
into the newspaper reading room
with its musty newspaper smell. An old man

in a heavy brown coat, slouched down
like a crumpled walrus in a big leather chair,
doesn’t even glance up from his newspaper
as we enter the room.

But I can see the slight smile
as he overhears my mother’s reverent voice
talking about the library, with its quiet corners
and sacred spaces. “I love this place,”
she says again as she takes
my arm, the color rising in her cheeks.
My dad would be proud of her I think,
taking such good care
of all these books.




About the Author Michael Estabrook: I’m a Marketing Communications Manager for a tiny division of one of the biggest companies in the world, and man, going into an office every day can be excruciating. The stuffy air, the florescent lights are killing me. Thankfully I can retire in 10 or 12 years (maybe). But I still think that somehow I’ve got to get myself on some boat collecting phytoplankton, or into the rich brown hills of Montana searching for TRex bones. Then again maybe I simply should’ve stayed on Northfield Avenue where I belong and learned to fix cars like my Daddy did.