Sleeping late on Sunday morning, napping in the afternoon,
worrying about work at the first light of dawn on Monday,
when most heart attacks are launched, he lies awake after
being bombarded with tales of Shit, Piss and Corruption

Overwhelmed by predictions of a doomed world defiling
the planet like syphilitic spirochetal blebs burrowing into
one’s spine and brain, he monitors the losing battle between
the malice of a pack of rabid Rottweilers and the innocence
of a flock of lambs. Unending enmity reflects a human condition
not evolved one iota from Neanderthal days.

Tossing and turning, he twists his pillow into a knot to no avail.
He’s suddenly aware of hunger pangs, which is good, he thinks;
always be a little bit hungry, helpful for weight control, and feeding
the hungry. He wishes he could slink down to the kitchen,
and sink his teeth into a fat “Dagwood Bumpstead” sandwich.

His mouth begins to salivate imagining a mammoth mouthful
of turkey, Prosciutto Di Parma, arugula, and tomatoes,
slathered with Poupon Dijon with slabs of dark chocolate
almond bark for dessert, food he gave up eating years ago.

It would have served as a narcotic and sent him off to sleep.
Fixated on the clock at 3A.M. he decides to focus on his breath,
rather than listening to the buzzing bee hive in his brain, monkey
chatter without a beginning or end. He hopes that will lull him
into sleep. He observes each inhalation and exhalation, counting
down from 100. Breathing more deeply like a Cistercian monk
contemplating his breath, he notes its slowing down.

Just as he feels he is about to drop off to sleep he has an urgent need to pee.
Back to bed, he’s wide-awake once again. He returns to his breathing,
enjoying it, appreciating the free flow of air, remembering a recent medical
procedure that forced him to breathe through his mouth. Focusing on watching
movies all night long distracted him from discomfort.

Conscious breathing always reminds him of witnessing his father’s last breath,
how welcoming it was to release his soul from a cancer-ridden comatose body.
He hopes to avoid wrestling with the Black Angel of Death, and be lucky enough to die
the Good Death.
Why not watch a movie now? Engrossed in “The Bridge on the River Kwai,” he fails
to notice golden beams of sunshine pouring through the window.