Sometimes the old man dies fast
on the toilet, pants down below his knees,
head-smashing against cracked floor tiles.
Other times strapped to a sterile hospital bed,
three weeks suffering.
Tubes in every known orifice of his frail old body,
praying for death to take him.
Depends on my mood how and when it happens.
Cause they're my poems here
I'm God the boss, the head honcho.
Something he swore up & down I'd never be.
Wednesday, March 31, 2021