-today in Swansea-

he’s the friend of a friend

and they’re here to help me

move a couch into the house.

of the three of us, three

are over 65 years of age.

we huff and puff, lift and twist,

shouting instructions to one another in order

to gain the upper-hand in the knowledge

of moving a piece of heavy furniture

into a space too small for it to fit.

the blame is laid at the builders of the house.
In time, the couch is inside with minimal damage

and the momentary silence is palpable;

we stand there panting, looking at the couch
like milk cows at the fence when somebody shows-up.

struggling for common closure, we walk outside
to lean on the hood of the pickup truck.

but nobody smokes cigarettes,
so the group's pickup truck posture lacks authenticity.

the friend of my friend breaks the ice.

he says he has cancer.

my friend nods as if to confirm the diagnosis.

“what type"? I ask the friend of my friend.

“bone”. he says.

“where”? I ask.

“everywhere”. he says.

“is it curtains”? I ask.

my friend and his friend shrug their shoulders,

the internationally recognized pantomime of: “who knows”?

I lighten the somber atmosphere with a touch of humor:

“good thing we moved the couch today, huh”?

I've applied pressure to the cheekbone's bruise with a cold-pack

so the swelling should be somewhat retarded by morning.