SAD, Following an Ancient Writer's Relection

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SAD,
Following an Ancient Writer’s Reflection


Etta, you do not seem to care if I am ill.

Remember last week, when a pinched nerve
Kept me in bed for most of the day?
I could not walk,
I began to panic, and
Believed my back might never be right again.

And your response, terrible, cold and unmoving,
You declared what in my heart was already apparent;
You told me that you had no aspirations,
That if I sought a Florence Nightingale,
I had looked up the wrong alley.

It hurt most, when after a moment’s reflection,
I came to believe your response sounded rehearsed.

It had a tone, which seemed practiced.

You had actually precluded any concern.

I had became lost to pain in an otherwise robust frame,
And you had shown no worry, commiserated not a bit.

Now that my health returns, and I am totally recovered
I must wonder,
If my being ill had not worried you at all,
What good is it to me to be well again.