Risk of Exposure
 
We can’t breathe!
My father tells the men
in white overalls stripping asbestos
from next door’s extension.
 
His overreaction my earliest memory.
I’ve broken my back, boy!
Both hands on his cracked rib
at my fourth birthday party.
 
My tutor’s voice grave:
Your father’s suffered a stroke,
which had left him by the time
I arrived in time to miss my finals.
 
It’s my heart… launching me
home from my honeymoon cruise.
Grandpa’s screaming, Dad! My son’s face
a frame of barely comprehended fear.
 
The man in charge removes his mask.
It’s all sealed off, pointing to the plastic sheeted door.
There’s negative pressure in the room inside
which ensures no dust escapes. It was low density anyway.
 
Balls! My father says. I don’t believe a word.
He wheezes to the couch, googles Chrysotile, Mesothelioma,
while I watch the men seal thick white sacks with tape,
suffocating whatever lies within.

Craig Dobson

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Craig Dobson  would be pleased to hear them.