The doctor was young enough to be
his grandchild
and barely able to raise a beard.
Consulting a chart,
that fledgling dared to proclaim,
given the odds,
he had at best six months to live.

It was not heart disease or death
that drew his
ire in response; rather, it was
the prediction
being delivered with such surety.
No child had
the right to pronounce his fate.

And so now it is not a birthday
or marriage date
that he chooses to commemorate,
it’s the erroneous
anniversary of his own demise.
Every half-year,
that baby-faced doctor he defies.


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