Sitting in the chair that is somewhere
between the chair of a barbershop and a beauty parlor,
chemo dripping into the catheter

surgically implanted into my chest, into body,
I resolve to smoke at least a half-ounce
of marijuana when I get home.

Perhaps I'll smoke a pound.
Dizzier than hell must be dizzy,
I'm still able to drive

(though will I be able next week?),
and after getting my ticket punched
I roar out of the Farber Clinic

(how splendid to have cancer in Boston
and fall heir to the astute care
available here)

in the silver sports car I sport
during this debacle,
and heat roars into me

with humidity so deep
it is a theological offense
which I cannot help

but take personally.
I think I may die without god,
my single comic integrity

that I have remained
an atheist in the foxhole,
though I am ready

to roar through the gates
if there are gates.
This summer I've joined the grown-old,