A faded picture is in my wallet.
Shows me young with 1970's hair.
I think it was a school photo?
Looking at it, I am struck sober
with how long ago that was.

Dandelions and weeds have
taken over the sanity asylum.
Morphine and other narcotics
is creasing my worrying head.
"They'll help you," I was told.
I question this medical wisdom,
for how helpful is being dulled?

A new normal has been defined.
A far different place from the
marching drums I beat before.
Now, I tap on the coffee table,
amazed I can even do that much.
Sitting in a chair, internally busy
with the picture of this boy.

"Young man," I want to scream,
"be careful of what is to arrive."
The tingling of cancer cells
are on the road you'll travel.
Failing thoughts that mingle
with the fading, dying sun.
Miracles of disposed relics
left on the table like charms.

Clutching Rosary beads and
mumbling the comfortable words.
I put the picture back inside.
Do not want to see it anymore.
He is me, I am him, obviously.
This crinkling comforter of cloth
wrapped like life around me.
His eyes are not as sad as mine,
this is what I deeply noticed.