I’m certainly not going to walk it off;
My leg is shot.
I’ve already tried to shake it off;
I shit you not.
We’ve our crises conquered;
But what if we didn’t.
Maybe it is;
And maybe it isn’t.
Might be a poem;
But then maybe it’s not.
Didn’t forgo them;
Just sort of forgot.
I’ve nary the space to shake a stick;
Certainly not for the lack of trying.
Careful to choose what’s left unsaid;
The lingering cough is amplifying.
Secretly, if I’m dying, I’m lying.