Monday, October 7, 2013


Oh, you poor thing! You poor, poor hideous
Ancient crippled thing! Once you were the prettiest
Maid, the handsomest youth! The slow insidious
March of death has brought you here. How piteous!

My heart bleeds for you, after a fashion.
I hate death and sickness! With fierce passion
I denounce this slow wasting, this crashing
Crushing, cresting wave of disability,
And in my deepest, most heartfelt compassion
I offer you escape from your senility.
Go on, I say. It is quite all right. Utility
Outlived, it is quite right to embrace the finality
Of the morphine drip.

                                      (But do you know how much I
Hate you for the crime of being fat?
Of not being perfect? I hate the disgusting flab
That flips and flops and slides across your lap
When you try to sit up in bed. I hate the gasps
Of weakening breath, of death. I want to slap
Your wrinkled, flabby face for blocking my path
With your hobbling. I hate you at meal and bath
And checkout line. You stand condemned by the math
Of usefulness. Keep up or else incur the wrath
Of my generation.)

          You shall not waste in futility
But railing against it you shall dare to die
And cease to remind me of my own creeping mortality.
Thus shall I cure you of death. When once you lie
In convenient, forgotten darkness, on the slab
In the morgue, (or in the assisted living facility
Dying by slow degrees of useless drab
Aloneness,) then I will forget at last that I
Too must die. 

Rather a dark poem, so here is a little lightness to wash it away. Enjoy!


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