The doctors came right in
they smile to say I most likely
won’t live
but my money is good here

Georgie, the orderly, cut me wide open
like a barber with a Parkinson’s disorder
a scalpel with Stockholm Syndrome
a race for euthanasia’s abduction

A table of speed, a speed table
and a stop sign of
bad decisions after supper
so stay awake

T-bone steaks for dinner that night
smashed potatoes and
a mother’s kiss goodbye
followed by the Jaws of Life

It was wrong wasn’t it, Eliot
to be left pinned
and wriggling against a wall
        because there will be time

for the mermaids to come and go
for my pants to remain rolled
and for steel to strengthen my bones
or so I’m told

but, I cant get that sound you make
out of my head, it’s connected to my body
which is connected to the problem
large enough for me

still—no one seems to be noticing
the bad bone in my body, the flat line of this fly
with a fading smile
       God has nice tile.