the client

the future is not
what it used to be,
he tells me, shuffling
papers at his desk,
writing me a check
for the work i've
done. a cigarette
is smoldering in
the ashtray,
the doctor gives
me a year, at best,
maybe two if the chemo
works, the pills,
the shots, prayer,
magic. what the hell
he says. fucking
cigarettes. how much do
i owe you. i put my
invoice in front of
him and he finds the
number and nods. i'm
throwing in a little
extra, you don't
mind, do you, he asks
and smiles. can't
take it with you,
he laughs. but it's
grim. he's grey,
he's ashen, he sees
what most of us
can't see. he sees
an ending to this
life. he's gathering
himself for this
last storm, this
last trial, this
final journey. and
there is nothing i
can do or say, or
tell him that will
change that. so the
words i say, i say
to myself in silence,
then shake his hand,
and look into his eyes
to let him know
that i get it.