Nick in Time
- 68 Downloads
Episodes stitched together by whiskey, Winehouse,
what ifs, enough soot & tar for a bubble bath.
Do forty-four pack years doom me like Doctor Faust’s
twenty-four with Mephistopheles? Screw the math.
The sun scoffs at the small spark cupped in my hands.
A loose cotton thread frayed by mindless fingering,
quivering, I pray to be cut before I learn
how much carcinoma costs, what lingering
means. I see myself as ash in a pink salt urn
The stars despise me for stomping out my light.
before my fibrosis tastes like burnt tin foil.
If I run everyday, eat more salad than fries,
if I stop starting mornings with a drag & lies,
could I pause/rewind this spinning mortal coil?
But the moon has felt the pain of rebirth and longing.
It’s in her dry eyes, her cracked lips and yellowed teeth,
a smile that knows the illusion of reprieve.