Every time I get up something new hurts,
like a pinball bouncing to the next bell
of pain, close to tilt, no lucky replay.
I sit back down and rub the latest.
It makes it difficult to enjoy all this enlightenment
of age and wisdom, closer to God shit.
Mortality sits on the coffee table like a knick-knack.
AFib - no booze, and TMJ now makes it hard to eat.
Almost broke has never bothered me, but now
I legitimately can’t get a job, I’ll be 76,
probably couldn’t get there if there was a there.
I can’t run, but I still drive, have the keys.
Cruising the boulevard, I realize how sick
feeling sorry for myself has gotten,
pondering the lives of the pitiful along the road,
I decide I’d rather be me than anybody else.
I’m running on low, physically, spiritually,
Financially - so what, unlike the Honda,
upstairs isn’t flashing on the dash
how many miles are left till it stops,
I pull off the main drag in search of an espresso,
chew up two extra strength Tylenol,
The girl in the coffee shop asks me how I’m doing.
“Fuckin amazing, make that a double, blonde and decaf.”
Craig Kirchner loves storytelling. He has been nominated for the Pushcart three times, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a hiatus he’s been published in Chiron Review, The Main Street Rag, Zoetic, The Wise Owl, Unbroken, and about eight dozen other journals and magazines.
Serotonin 