Waiting on a gurney

for surgery on my eyes.

I spy a scraggly old guy

with a face as wrinkled

as an old photograph.

He looks bored out of his mind,

waiting for somebody or something.

He yanks a hanky out of his pocket,

blows his prominent nose,

and shoves it back in his pocket.

He slogs around, shuffling papers,

yawning, chewing gum, playing

with his fingers, as if he was counting

or playing a wind instrument.

It’s so easy to die, like getting

sucker-punched, but so hard to live

in a broken world.

Heavily drugged, I thought

this was a party that would never end.

It feels like I’m getting plunged

into the bitter ice of the Zuyder Zee.

I never knew non-existence

would be a forever sentence

with no parole.

I find myself waving goodbye

as days, hours, and moments slip by,

remembering how alive I felt

when I fell madly in love with you.

Recovering in the ICU

I found out Mr. Death

was a senior volunteer.