Poetry

anxious

I have to focus, now
I have to focus.
Thoughts come through racing
Screaming they mean anything more than
My own fear.

Break that down into
Little bits.  And look at it.
Look at it--white despondency
Tied around my neck,
A string of bayonets turned inward
Around my stomach,
Cancer growing concave in my skull.

My synapses walk down
To the oncology ward, gather around the
Coffee Machine, talk over each other
Sharing stories of no consequence.
The paint is chipping off the walls
The words are scuttling on the floors.
The machines are squealing.
The patients are building up.
This is a death house awash with light.

Kevin Crispin
What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it's my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It's certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.

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