I thought I’d write a poem about ladies—
Those girls, gorgeous, playing paddle tennis—
But symptoms altered my priorities.
Internal thumps, signifying menace,
Sternly focussed thought (though short of panic).
A mild chest pain on the right side—muscle
Perhaps, not artery—then cyclonic
Drain of breath, like a toilet flushed, tussle,
Until the air returned (the bowl refilled),
Sett’ling that dreadful whirl of dizziness.
I knew these symptoms well—I saw them spilled
Before by one near, dear to me, in great distress.
An EKG might show a heart defiled—
My first (or last) thought: get our tax forms filed!
(4/3/11)
II
I think I’m dying, though I may be wrong.
That’s the grim part—here’s the strange part, quite weird:
I find I’m not depressed, nor do I long
For more years on evil Earth, so shit-smeared.
Why, then, am I whelmed with anxiety?
Not, I assure you, by contemplation
Of hell or heaven! It’s sobriety,
That denies a peaceful culmination.
I have responsibilities you see—
Others, innocent, unjustly suffer
Consequences of my demise, pay fees
In spirit, cash, that chip their lives rougher.
Yet I’m OK with death, though still quite tense,
Regretting my death’s inconvenience.
(4/16/11)