that five pounds, your
leaky tires, the drinking, more
fiber. why bother? everything
is breaking now,
breaking down. you
get older, faster, see things
clearly; all that you love and have
loved dearly is receding,
your friends are gone, some dead,
others dying soon, and you finally
accept you are breaking, too.
you make big plans
through funeral tears, promise
to make amends, run errands,
fix years of neglect, to write
the end of that manuscript you've kept
in some drawer somewhere; life feels more
dire, bereft, and unspoken, and all
you want is to half-live like this
forever, torn,
imperfect and broken.
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