The Last Good Day
All looks well when half a week's gone,
Though I wish the same might be said
Of the outside world.
As morning sunlight streamed into my lower-floor room
Shining bright among the hopeful on a cooler morning
Just as Gulliver's god was beginning to matter to me again,
Madness claimed the rush hour.
Five random shootings occur
All over the nearby city
Marking the opening
Of a festival of Death
Soon to rage 'til October's end.
Now each day that follows
No one outside of walls can call themselves safe.
Unknown to me then
I was no longer safe myself.
Invisible snipers of a different sort
Were collecting to come for me.
All seemed so well;
The crashing feeling of the Sitting-Up Ritual
Was receding, and the ally of morphine
Less and less required.
But a strange constriction announced itself,
Some subtle, unseeable python
Was beginning to coil about me;
The drawing of breath gets harder and harder from this day forth,
And no one seems to know why.