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Poem

I cannot sleep. There is no more chicken noodle soup.
My breathing treatment worked two seconds.
I am carrying around an aqua gallon bucket for a spit cup 
and it is slopping over.
Not of anything clear, but of the vile, ugly green salty excretions
That I have been coughing up with the help of my barely working lungs
Who gave up two weeks ago, willing to shut us down.

Last night I tried to make a deal with God.
I told Him, “either kill me tonight or let me live but without this crud.”
God either did not listen or did not care, because I jumped out of my
Fourth lazy,  warm water bath today, after watching our black escapade mouse
float by on the only bar of green soap, the one I had been looking for the whole time.
Relaxing? Sure. Until that second I started to reach for the soap, 
but then realized If I did, the mouse was going to land on my chest and frankly I have been through enough.

I cannot sleep. There is no lying down, for even a sleeping pill 
has no effect whatsoever.
I have probably taken too many of them; 
I am bringing them home in the 40 gallon bags now.
So here I am, not planning anything but death 
which did not happen, making me extremely angry.
What good is a prayer if no one answers it? 
What good is being here if you are this miserable?
I am not in the best of moods. 
So will not be commenting on anyone’s poetry today. 
Be grateful!

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