After reading Wisława Szymborska
 
People avoid poking you
with the spiked details
of their pain. They stuff
them in the private landfill
of their hearts. It’s perfectly
understandable. I’m thinking
of William. For most of his 75
 
years he withheld from view 
the anger and deepest 
regret that wiggled ever
so slowly in his aorta 
like a catfish raking 
a muddy river. Sustained
by dead microbes, snails
and leeches, he kept breathing,
 
walking and punching
the clock in all the normal
ways though there were small
hints. Often he balled his right
 
fist like a grenade. That, too, was 
normal. William got used to panic
attacks, clenched his jaw
while delivering a well-paced,
respectable 10-minute speech
at Toastmasters. When his wife 
needed comfort, he’d push
the junkheap of rage in his heart
 
straight into his hands. He’d make love,
hug her so tight his fingers 
made red stripes on her lonely
shoulders. When William was stricken
with Alzheimer’s things changed. Came 
the tantrums, inconsolable sobs.
  
These, too, fit on the bell curve
of normal. Like so many patients
William lost control. He forgot to hold
the reins. The horse bucked as 
the saddle fell off, the blinders 
landed in the dirt, the steed
galloped off, long bushy tail swishing.