lonely in a big city, I sit in the sharp
shadow of lights in a coffee on the main road,
coughing up my bravest words against Death.
I am middle aged, I know moderate discomfort
like canker sores.
I know no agony.
Loss, a little.
I slow-burn for recognition,
for other humans who say I say things well.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem