my sickness (2004)

During my morning shower I listen to it,

a slow,    progressive,    measurable    beat.
The leak from the toilet
and the coffee can,
bottom rusted through,
placed beneath the drip:
boring a hole into the wooden floor.
Sound swirling and sloshing against my body
pulling seconds—the cells of Time—
as the vibrations evaporate
into stillness.
dripping

            dripping

dripping

                                    dripping.

It’s returned again,
my sickness.

Is this line long, Lachesis?
Cramps in my left leg.
watch—others move fast
but    I,    I    just    barely.
Putting in and releasing the clutch
as I tap the gas:
Traffic jam.
push-in

            release

push-in

                                    release.

It’s returned again,

my sickness.

The smell of alcohol and cotton sterile pads,
squeaky white shoes, overcoat man.
Mat of red hair above his lip.
I touch his face to see if he’s bleeding
and he examines me.
The chill of metal running up
against my back,

my stomach

      my breast

        my breath.

It’s returned again,
my sickness.

Diligent,    deliberate,    it is mine alone. 

It bores through me, starting at the left:
left hand, arm, leg and foot,
toes and fingers—
numb.
Half of my body surrenders
while the other carries on living
as only half a body can.
Knowing the days are quickly passing
and feeling the shedding of beats.
It’s returned.