“You really love
to have all your holes plugged?”
she asked. And she was dead right in regards to
my head in my sleep. Ear plugs, a sleep
mask, and now CPAP device to keep me from slipping
to sweet slumber of eternal dreams
when my lungs collapse in the night. A bellows
for bellows. A burner for the balloons
which crumple from the night sky as the pilot
laudanum dreams, drifting on winds of dark
constellations to the north star as those paired
swallows whistle surfactant, blissfully ignorant
of their dysfunction.
My bones now perotic and muscles empty
bags of sand, standing so slowly that
time itself stands still. The laws
of physics and my skeletal self play
a cruel joke on whichever specter
controls my second hand. I swing
my legs with the gusto of a creature
so well versed in inertia, look her straight
in the eye and say “Yup,
I’m gettin’ old.”
She calls me old (now)
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