The cat is awake,
looking for food, purring
almost silently.

Blood pressure
a tad high, blood sugar less so, and
I’ve lost another three pounds.

I am lost without
a damn thing to do
in the whole damn world,

but I’m getting better,
or so the doctors say.
I think I must say the same

or risk it — all of it.
So I keep busy. I try
not to think about it,

my life and death,
my damaged heart,
my blown-out brain.

I can’t think about it,
after all, without screeching
to a halt.

The halt comes whenever
I close my ruined, repaired eyes.
So I keep them open until

I fall asleep. Then, I wake up
and do all this again.
It gets old so fast.

This morning I remember
my dream; I was a student
in a failing high school in New Jersey,

making gentle, raucous friends;
riding around in a Jeep;
smoking weed and laughing,

always laughing. Then
I woke up. Went through
my morning routine

of testing and shaking my head
at the results.
It gets old so fast

I don’t have time
to think about the dream
while I sit around

and think, or not,
of what I have to do
or not do. But

I think about it.
Yes, I do. I think about it
and about taking

one catastrophic step
toward determining
if that dream has legs

or not, if it can carry me
anywhere I’m not,
anywhere but here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
T