My age’s lately been 
a Stone tied to my foot.
Waking up daily feels more and more
like I’m standing poolside,
bound in weights, afraid to jump in. 

I’ve got
a tremor in my leg
that might be more of 
the sugary damage my feet
are already feeling.  I’ve got
lungs like sponges and 
honestly, I’m damn tired of
all of it.

That old devil
suicidal ideation — it almost 
sings, doesn’t it? 
“Sue is idle?” Tell her to get back
to work then! It’s a Song of sorts.
Makes me want to yank my larynx
to keep from singing it.

You think that’s extreme?
It’s extreme, alright. Extremely
hilarious in the face of doom.
It makes me laugh
as I’m hovering over
a recreational drowning.

My leg keeps vibrating
and I could despair over
the progression of the disease
all day long, but then

who would do the dishes? Who
would do anything around here
if I let myself die early rather than
on time, naturally at the end
of all this decay?

I step away
from the pool, laughing. Plan
to keep making ridiculous music
as long as I can, no matter how heavy
my steps become.