Under the Knife by Howie Good

​The daytime moon floats above, ghostly thin, a pale, haggard face with the eyes gouged out.  My doctor has forbidden me to exert – to bend or lift or stretch, or even to withdraw into a corner somewhere and whimper in pain. I have been abandoned at my most vulnerable by so-called friends. The trains and ferries are packed with people who think the term “affordable luxury” isn’t an oxymoron, but an actual thing, like buildings and streets or vanishing pollinators. I don’t so much think and feel as see. There are days – many, in fact – when my only solace is the questionable solace of knowing that as time passes, witnesses forget.