Syncope
I listen as you share concerns about
implanting a device within your chest
to monitor your heart, thus figure out
why you no longer function at your best.
The problem to be fixed is that you faint
in church amidst the strains of Forest Green,
sung with each fellow sinner, fellow saint
until your interruption of routine.
So off we go again to seek advice
which you are predisposed to set aside
since it is likely to be less than nice,
though what is necessary, you confide.
My take? Just get the precious gadget, please,
to obviate much worse indignities.
.
Etiquette
A widow’s note of thanks comes in the mail
for something we have yet to think to do
since—truth be told—we never even knew
her husband, though we heard a tallish tale.
And then a second note—much like the first—
arrives, and we resume our talk about
what we should do, but soon we figure out
a third note of our own would be the worst.
So we do nothing—other than discuss
the lives we lead, the legacies we leave,
the few remaining loved ones who might grieve
by trying to do right by God and us.
And then we throw both notes into the bin
while wishing not to speak of such again.
© Jane Blanchard
Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia (USA). Her poetry has recently appeared in Blue Unicorn, Light, Orbis, and Pulsebeat. Her latest collection is Metes and Bounds (2023).
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