is no friend. of mine.
I struggle to breathe, convulsively coughing.
Old lungs sag in a darkened sun
like a pair of old tires.
The relentless snot factory overhead
drowns me in an avalanche of flegm.
I grow weak as a new born baby,
lucky to have a wife who embraces
what’s left of me.
Ever since grandpa died in the flu epidemic of 1918,
I figured since I look like him, my lungs are the same,
and they give me pneumonia over and over and over again.
Purple splotches on the X-ray reach for my spine.
I sometimes wish the old man’s friend
would become my friend, let me fall asleep
and not wake up.