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.