Tommy Gault
The tumor was a surprise,
a fat sack in the back of my brain.
If I start going blind, give the doctor a call.
I’m not a rideshare.
I just have a very quiet passenger.
They find my friend in dead people,
cereal box prizes from the yet MRI’d.
I am far ahead of the curve.
My new friend is named Plankton,
a cartoon steering my occipital lobe.
Biopsies,
the on-deck circle of medical tests.
Enter Plankton-
a fistful of clumsy sutures,
a future on the head of a pin.
I only want to meet him in a jar.
He will reside in my living room,
and be featured heavily at every birthday.
Every year, another fuck-you to Plankton.
I will never shake his hand,
my quiet friend in the deafening tube.
As he lounges, I can’t sleep.
Plankton tips drivers at fifteen percent.