There's a Paywall to Your Happiness

This is the first time

I'm saying this

but I know

that I'm dying.

My hair's falling out

in clumps

fistfuls in the shower;

the blame I used to shift.

My time here's fleeting

like a pre-coffee glance

at gas station boner pills

glistening in dusty plastic

on the foreign clerk's counter

between his calls to home.

Several times a day 

I reach to place items

on a table that's no longer there;

a precursor to a tasty oblivion

obnoxious in the present.

The box fan in the window's

not blowing the smoke out

fast enough

against a whipping wind

that's left from this hurricane.

Even the smell

of my father's basement:

smoke and must 

and wood from the '30s

can't comfort me any more;

a lease signed

away from me

that won't be broken.

How could you?

A sailor to some

a cowboy to few

recalcitrant misfit to most;

here is the lie

I told:

We're all dying

some slower

and more blessed 

than others.

We count our days left

on calendars

fingers and toes.

Currently reading:

"Bagombo Snuff Box" by Kurt Vonnegut.