I avoid eye contact when my good old friend starts walking toward me.
I play with my cannula, looking around at the empty wall;
in the sunlit hallway, I pray that I can be less visible.

I collapse in the shower three days after college has me admit.
My conscious slips away as I enter the heavenly-lighted hall.
I avoid eye contact as my good old friend starts waving at me.

Strike by the sight of my body, my mother’s lean
body trembles. Her pink knitwear soaking wet, she hauls
me into the hospital. Under the PET scan, I light up like a Christmas Eve candle.

Ninety-seven percent recovery rate—and who says I couldn’t be the three.
After all, I am just another powerless target for my friend to haunt.
I avoid eye contact as it starts waving at me.

My mother is holding my hand when she tells me heaven is made up of cartoon ponies and angels and beautiful evergreen trees—
I can’t help but laugh: mom that sounds like the Christmas decoration of the neighboring mall.
She lifts the corner of her lips before I fall asleep.

My friend walks toward me down the sunlit hallway, but I refuse to admit.
Coldness mounts up my marrow.
I avoid eye contact as my good old pal starts smiling wildly at me—
before it hops onto me and gives me a big, warm hug.