I gave the context for this poem in yesterday’s blog post.
Some People Are Worth Melting For
Little eyes are pouring salty waterfalls at us.
“Olaf can’t talk to me anymore!” she wails.
I didn’t know that she even cared about Olaf, or his battery-powered repertoire.
His prognosis is grim to her.
His vocal cords have cancer, and his remaining time is a few crossed-off calendar days.
I propose a thorough surgery to restore function.
He didn’t get this way from chainsmoking, and we can fix it.
She questions the consequences, the scarring, the methodology.
“There’s no seam near the button! Don’t you think this is a delicate procedure requiring laparoscopy?”
We hash out an entire exploratory surgical plan,
yet no one can turn off her lacrimal glands.
“Lilly? What else happened today?”
Her lip quivers. And I also perform heart surgery.