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.