We are getting old
Our blood is thick and gravelly
Pumped up noisily through traffic jam
Veins passing abandoned arteries along the way
We are told in unison
That at our age breathing is important
But we talk, and quickly come to the
conclusion That less is more
So we hold hands and breath and memories
Squeezing tighter
As days creak by
Together we imagine a lightning purge
And two smoldering wheelchairs
Drifting side by side empty through the night
While we float slowly above in endless circles
Turning the engines of the moon
Watching our dry-aged bodies laid out on tables
Seasoned and cooked and fed to the applauding earth
Eagerly awaiting a return on it’s investment
“It was a good life,” you say, “wasn’t it?”
I search, but I no longer have the heart
or the spine or the tongue
or the obligation to tell you the truth
“No, it wasn’t,” I reply.