Cancer night at the art museum.
We might have donated to this
In our other life,
Looked briefly at the mailing,
The photo of the bald child,
Who would not grow up to be a dancer,
Smiling wanly at the Degas.
Laughing, you chose a yellow shirt
To match your protective mask.
Like children we ran through empty galleries,
Pretended the paintings were ours.
We avoided the few masked ghosts
Who surveyed the Rembrandts.
They were sickly, skeletal,
You were not like them.
We stopped at St. George and the Dragon.
Quiet, you looked a long time.
The scaly thing was impaled on his lance.
His face was tired, sagging, relieved.
I said, that's you, fighting the dragon.
Later that spring, the dragon won.
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