Sometimes my body feels like a rattrap.
I can feel some small animal, hardly a morsel, sickly and slowing down inside my skeleton.
Every day for a year and a half straight I pondered
of every inconvenience.
Was a flat tire a sign that I shouldn’t leave the house? I walked everywhere.
I was always seeing something I thought I should write down –
a violent protest to end the war, a cop throwing his cigarette butt
on the lush green grass of a public park. Eventually,
I tried to help homeless men and women and even children
decipher a meaning to life. I approached it like a math problem:
this one person has to suffer enough to cover a sadness deficit
so some other guy and his girl can live in a decent apartment
and both own cars.
You shouldn’t describe the meaning of life to a sick person
unless you are also sick.
My body is a rattrap but I feel okay, all in all.
I feel better when there’s so much noise I can’t hear that last disappointed moment.
I’m grateful for friends and for my health.