We eat at Olive Garden after learning if our father
had stronger kidneys a portion of his intestines
could have been purposed into a replacement bladder—
the pouch / elimination toss
weighing on cancer-free lips.
My sister repeats the doctor’s credentials:
University of Michigan.
Cleveland Clinic.
The latter where Little Italy’s chalked cobblestones
spread like dominoes that make
Mona Lisa or tableaus of extinct animals—
the quagga hogging tiramisu.
We hear ostomy in hospitaliano, worry
the surgical team members
are younger than us,
a zipper’s pull-tab beheaded of denim
in the men’s room sink.
