“There’s a light at the end of the tunnel”
The plaque plastered counselor flicked the lighter
spewing out wisps of smeared lines
and turned to the boy, expectantly, tapping
out wheezing embers;
but the boy sought a will power stronger than marigold sunbeams,
the like which slashed its way through the room’s blinds
he did not want to be another Frodo
for though a vanquisher of darkness, his scars never healed;
so as the hacking realist retreated down the marigold hallways
he took out his pack and lighter
and smoked a few,
sucking in the billowing smoke, blocking out sun-after all
his tumorous lungs only had two months best,
and his light at the end of his tunnel
was more of a sickly glow worm than streaming sunshine,
his tunnel
more of a dank cardboard box with slits,
each morning he would dust those slits
never bothering to tear them further
but leisuring in cancerous clouds, seeping from his paper rolls
dim smile plastered.