After the Diagnosis

This morning: the doctor's quiet words.
Now, I sweep the old oak floor, calmed
by the knowledge that here, in my kitchen,
I control when and where the dust will lie.

A web has been spun across the abyss
where the ceiling cornices converge;
the brown spider sits
in the center, waiting

for the vibrating visitations
of the unlucky. Yesterday,
I would have raised the broom,
swept away that small breath.