After we filed our claim
over the phone, the men
from the tree service,
in face masks like surgeons,
came out to clear our fallen
black cherry with chain saws
while we went into Philly
to drink with Ron, Jan’s
brother, at the Irish tappie
next to I-95. Still chipper,
Ron talked about his second
dose of chemo. If it didn’t
work, they would open
him up and scrape out
the bad stuff. Great, we said,
though we were thinking
about our friend, Denise,
dead six months after
she got the diagnosis.
Her husband was driving
through the National Parks
tossing her ashes over
the guardrails at scenic
overlooks. Whatever Ron
wanted to drink came before
he could pull out his wallet.
Pitchers crowded the table
like a forest of stumps.
Everyone stood Ron
a round, but no one went
with him when he strolled
outside for a smoke. We
shouted our best wishes
to him in the parking lot,
then cleared off. Jan drove
as the Golden Oldies
station played Steve Miller.
Time keeps on slipping,
slipping. I have seen
the future, she said.
Nobody we know is there.

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