Lung Cancer

a poem by Roger B Rueda

In a cloud of black smoke
blowing over the city
is virtuousness, thoughtless
and compassionate,
its hands gentle
and welcoming,
its presence rice and fish
on every table,
it’s presence loss,
modest and as if likely,
jeepneys, antediluvian,
in near constant-gridlock –
a common thing to feast
our eyes on.
It’s being public-spirited.
It’s being self-sacrificing –
yes, self-sacrificing.
Too is feebleness:
it’s shrouded in
unassuming nature.
Too is unfussiness.
Too is power,
brief and pedestrian.
It’s, remember, elections,
dirty and fraudulent.
It’s our imagination, perhaps.
Lung cancer is
just a marvel
when it befalls,
its presence numinous, as if.