What’s one more dish to clean,
spill to wipe, errand to run?
Another ache, another
twinge, another throb? If bad
things come in threes then you’ve
stopped counting, which God tried
to tell Job but Job had other
things on his mind like flaming
sheep and absconded camels, not
to mention his son’s leaky roof.
And this was before ultrasounds
and MRIs and sinister masses, so
what else should we expect except
mounting, increasingly specific
woes?