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You remember once a famous,
Handsome, relatively youthful
Actor appeared on a talk show

And announced that he had cancer.
He looked great. He said he felt great.
He jumped from his seat and performed

A dozen brisk push-ups on the floor
In front of the talk-show host’s desk,
Then stood and vowed he would defeat

That cancer. A couple months later,
All the supermarket celebrity glossies
Reported his tragically early death.

You can still see him in memory,
Doing those defiant push-ups,
Drawing loud applause.

Why did he go on the show
To announce the news?
Was he trying to get ahead

Of any tabloid rumors
By putting the diagnosis out there?
Did he hope to rally himself

Against what was eating him
By a public declaration of determination?
He got back in his guest’s chair.

You remember nothing else
Of the interview, of the day
You saw the show, of that week

Long ago. If he hadn’t looked
So fit, if he hadn’t died so quick,
You wouldn’t remember any of it.