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
the meaning
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.
