Frank C. Modica – 1 poem




He trekked three hours

to his dad’s house, his duty,


driving him to the hospital

for bypass surgery.


In the hospital for 9 hours,

he walked loops around the


brightly lit corridors, prayed

with the rest of the family.


Feeling like a boat tossed

about in the wake of a storm,


he raged against the gods,

besieged the nurse’s station.


He drove back home to rest,

waited for news. At the tenth hour,


a phone call–the blood sacrifice

on a surgical table. No mercy.





Frank C. Modica