A weight pressing on my chest.
In fact I’d slept on my front.
My body conspiring against me.
Breathing shifting from easy to drifting in and out of old air bags,
Which don’t inflate, but collapse, as I crash.
My length bending awkwardly, extending more so.
Knees twisting before, or after, my torso.
And all of it forced where once it was not.
Thoughts infected by my body’s directions.
Fears steered into dead end dark alleys hiding unspeakable maladies.
Fretting myself sweat less until I can’t rest
And taking tablets for stress.
Pills for ills I don’t have but have been convinced of
By this selfish shell of mine,
That, no matter how hard I urge, will not work as designed.
Health invented by wealth conscious fools
Won’t bloom on my frame,
No matter how much fertilizer is worked in,
Or booze consumed or smoke blown,
Or lovers uncovered.
And so I choke