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
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