A poem by Peter M. Gordon


I host a bomb in my body.
Only doctors who read scans see it.
Sometimes I can feel its ticking.
Sometimes I can forget it’s there.

Sarcoidosis, doctors name it. Latin
word makes it sound scientific.
Perhaps we can learn to disarm it.
“Long as you show no symptoms”

says Doctor James, “you’ve got plenty
of time to write that will, put affairs
in order.” Somehow I’m not comforted.
I bargain for time. Whine to God, “I’ll

be good,” like a six year-old before
Christmas. Substitute mineral water
for alcohol, volunteer for food banks.
How I regret now those debaucheries

of my twenties
fifties –

last week.
Each day I pray my bomb stays
asleep until I earn my place among
the angels. This time I really mean it.

About the Author:

Peter M. Gordon won the Thomas Burnett Swan Poetry Prize awarded by the Gwendolyn Brooks Writer’s Association of Florida. He’s published over 100 poems and two collections. Peter is a founder and current President of Orlando Area Poets, a chapter of the Florida State Poets Association. He hosts the FSPA’s monthly open mic and teaches in Full Sail University’s Film Production MFA program. 

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