I do not suffer well.
If I bruise my finger,
I call an ambulance.
I let the papers know!
I look sadly at the nurses
and play stoic,
though they know my game,
and I suffer even more.
It is not cowardice that afflicts me.
It is not fear of pain,
or pain itself.
It is just loneliness,
being forgotten.
So I make a nuisance of myself
and get no pity.
People never inquire how I feel,
and are alert to my moods.
If I frown, they disappear,
lest they hear of apocalypse
and genesis,
bearing enough suffering of their own
to last two lifetimes
So no one cares,
everyone acting as if everything
were fine,
and nothing bad ever happens to them,
and nothing ever will,
and they don’t want to be reminded
by the likes of me.
But let me tell you,
it’s all a lie.
I am a hero,
I don’t suffer at all,
I endure pain
like a woman endures childbirth,
a mixture of good and bad
with a blessing.
It is, as I said,
only loneliness that afflicts me.
Being unloved,
forgotten,
put away.
For a woman not being pretty,
for a man,
not being admired.
It is our human way.
Our coming and going.
Perhaps I’ll fool the next person I see,
and tell them I’m fine,
couldn’t be better,
invite them to lunch,
and cure the real problem
of company.