Friday, February 10, 2017

Requiem Train

I am dying. I might as well be
blunt about it, treat it as fact
because, truth be told, I'm not
doing it very well. I'm terminal

in my laziness. Often days pass
& I haven't done a damn thing
to bring Death to fruition; nothing
more dangerous than my living

around city air & no bad habits
more hazardous than breathing
it in deep. Neither have I prayed
for miracle cures, wild therapies,

or straight-up appealing to God,
"Strike these Demons of Ouch
the Hell outta me. Hallelujah!"
If nothing else, I have my pride,

(although, most days I'm damned
if I can find it) & that tiresome
optimism that comes when things
go south for so long, you learn

to at least enjoy the view. Fire
inside for suicide or a great blaze
to go out in: both are too much
effort. Chronic... progressive...

not currently curable...
for a journey where it is known
what the ending will look like,
but not how long the ride will be,

will have been. Just a pale train
that eats up my dollars & doctors
trained in telling you they know
nothing for absolute certain. Death

becomes less of a thing to fear
& more something you check
your watch to judge just how late
a thing can be when no one knows

the schedules. So, I rest in a chair
made out of me, put my feet up
on my past. I imagine this poem
will be finished long before I am.

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