by Dan Berick
On Friday she will wrench you,
unceremoniously, from the pink bed
where you have spent your life
in unobtrusive duty
this half century or so.
Your world ends with a brisk tug
that I’ll only vaguely notice
thanks to the doctor’s skill
(and benzodiazepine).
And then you’re gone forever.
Next, the months of slow replacement:
scattered painful days, some twinges,
and some days that you’re forgotten
while your replica embeds itself
indistinguishable to everyone
but me.
And it’s not so bad an ending, even
something I could hope for, for myself:
perhaps “some mild discomfort,” then
a rapid, skilled extraction, one
quick wrench and then it’s done.
After which, the slow replacement
as my emptied socket heals.