It's tough to sweep you
off your feet
when I'm still gathering
pieces of me
pulling bullets
biting wood
and marking words
in shelf dust.
A comedienne
made a joke of a man
and the nurses
couldn't fix him.
Henry Miller
said to turn
the lost ones
into prose.
A letter came
a stolen photo
a call when surgery hurt her.
A cripple read cursive
a blind man admired
and a masochist gave a sore shoulder.
There comes a time
to pack it in
declare your own blood poison.
A eulogy should write itself.
I must still be alive.
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