Merciful Mothballs

Foreword: This poem is formally dedicated to Norm MacDonald, the funniest guy I [don’t] know.

“How do you do today, moth? Don’t be shy.”

“Bozhe moi, doctor, where to begin?

Beset with cold sweats, seized by spells of shakes, I

Feel my fevered fate fast wearing thin.

For my boss, Mr. Gregor-Alinnovitch, year

After year, have I labored away.

Now my back, as my spirit, has broken, I fear,

Laid to waste by this bitter ballet.

Weary, I wake in the night, nearly numb,

To a woman, from cruel, dreamless sleep,

Whom once called I wife, though now what has become

Of that life, I know not, and I weep.

Aleksendria, doctor, my youngest, she fell,

As so many, e’er wintertide draws,

Unforgiving, the frostbitten beckoning knell

Tolled her claim into icicled claws.

I avoid my son’s sad, sunken stare, for I fear

(This the most painful pill I’ve to swallow)

The same cowardice, daily, I meet in my mirror,

Now the love I once bore him rings hollow.

Doctor, sometimes I won’t feel at all like a moth,

But a spider whose end is at hand,

An inferno of flames, ‘neath my web, dance and froth,

As I swing by my last silken strand.

Had I one kernel of courage, I might

Find within me the strength for to draw

Up the cocked, loaded gun by my bedside one night,

And escape from this hellish façade.”

“Merciful mothballs! I grieve for your pain,

But you know I’m a foot doctor, right?”

“Of course, comrade doc, I don’t mean to complain,

I’m just here ’cause you left on the light.”


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s