The final act in this life of cold consumerism
will be to consume.
I tell you that I love you,
I tell you that I’m sorry,
I leave a note for my mother.
But this pain begets more pain,
and now I am in the car,
and I am not wearing any shoes,
and I am throwing up in the circle drive.
They put me in a wheelchair.
But I can walk. I can walk just fine.
Maybe I cannot be trusted
to bear that burden so soon.
They take my clothes,
give me a gown of sterile paper,
a hospital bed.
There are no pockets for my phone.
And for the second time in my short life,
I am a baby in a crib,
anxious parents peering down
and wondering what the future will bring.