Little by little I am drowning
inch by inch, bit by bit.

And little by little I am losing
every breath, every sigh.

Little does it matter what I say
what I do for you, to get little
attention from you.

This little thing I do
This little thought I have
means nothing to you.

Remember when we buried a stray
dog under the old church bell
in your backyard?  You said

the dog belonged to the *******
mechanic  south of the school
& his mom set the animal

loose because she was jealous;
it did not make sense
then, it does, today.

Some days she comes home
sad, having ushered one of
her patients into the big sleep.
And she pours a drink, sometimes
telling us the medical side and
sometimes half asleep after the
first sip. And sometimes she
won't come home 'til 7 hours
after her shift, 'cause the evening
nurse didn't show and she has
paperwork to do (and management
has gone home, so she can relax
a bit), and we keep dinner
in the microwave cause even
saints gotta eat.
And her mom is becoming her
favorite patient, requiring
extra patience because my grandma
was a doctor. And she's now 92
with a failing heart and a mind
that can't quite hold on to what
it used to. And my mom is gonna
hold her hand, calmly carrying
another weakened, time-stricken
soul on her weight-thickened shoulders,
to the vacant hole that holds the
after. And she'll do it not 'cause
she has to, because all she's
ever done
                 is care.

embrace the bruises. embrace the aches that emanate from the surface of your skin. embrace the broken bones that come from the sum of your experience. embrace life's tattoos, the proof that you have used your time; the proof that you didn't just cruise through, unscathed and unafraid.
embrace the disease that coarses through your veins; embrace the pain that brought you here today.
if we were meant to end, heaven sent without a scrape, don't you think that scars would fade away at day's end?

The headlights, as always,
were blinding.
The End
was carried in discomfort between us,
its warm air pushing sweat
from our pores.
Some lost cells lead us to this point,
the word "tumor" hanging
                        numb
                        in the air.
There, we had no choice
       but to leave the conversation;
       unsatisfied, but now
       more aware of what lingers
       in the shadows cast by
       headlights at dusk.

A minivan sits in a parking lot.
Nothing exceptional
but 3 red
"don't text and drive" bumper stickers
and another white one
too.
Projecting
angst and loss, they want to tell
the world what to do.
Can you blame them?

I hear you,
and I'm sorry that someone
else
wasn't listening.

I was looking at my fish today
And couldn't help but wonder
"Is he lonely?"

That's silly, of course,
Can fish even get lonely?
Sure, he's swimming in that huge tank,
Back and forth and back and forth
All hours of the day,
Entirely by himself,
His only company the algae hugging
The over sized and over-exaggerated rocks,
But can he be lonely?

Do fish have thoughts?
Does he swim back and forth
And back and forth
Wondering when the glass will tap
And flakes of food
Float down from some gleaming world above,
With nothing but fish-thoughts
Running through his fish brain,
Contemplating his existence:
Why is he here?
As a trophy?
As a center piece to give simple aesthetic to the room?
Is that all he is?
Aesthetic?

When he dies,
What will be remembered of him
Other than being flushed down into the sewers,
And replaced by yet another
Extremely unextraordinary fish?

But still, is he lonely?
Surely, as am I, he must be something,
Because maybe we are both here just for the aesthetic of being alive,
Swimming back and forth
And back and forth
With of fish thoughts
Waiting for nothing more than to be fed.

And now, it seems,
I'm only here for the stars
And the moon that I hope
Can defrost my aching heart.