thoughts in the night

thoughts in the night The wind is terrible, races around like a drunken dervish hollering in the night, but when tired of This needless validating of masculinity it became quiet; to let my thoughts and worries take over Simple things at first, should I put the chicken soup in the fridge, although the soup was still tepid Of course, the soup was a ruse to stop me thinking of my declining health, nerve pains, and so on My doctor, a lovely woman of 48, asks me about drinking, I tell her I drink red wine between ten at night to eleven, then I go to bed She looks out of the window, tries not to smile Clearly, she doesn't believe me, but it happens to be true but I see she thinks I'm eccentric all this is a prelude, to my thoughts about death will it be painful struggling for air, or will it be mild like going to sleep and not waking up again Whatever happens, I will not be able to write or Make a drama of my death