Burgundy geometries of waiting chairs recede

and magazines flap open behind us

as we smack through overpasses

like waves of a whopping headache

and rowers in late sun

dip trim oars into the Charles in unison.

Ibrutinib.  Ibrutinib.

There is a discipline, a sport to hope:

to pray for prayers that break the surface whether

you’re better or (please Jesus never)

worse.