as I near 70 I get letters, cards, little gifts from strange people. congratulations, they tell me, congratulations. I know what they mean: the way I have lived I should have been dead in half that time.
I have piled myself with a mass of grand abuse, been careless toward myself, almost to the point of madness. I am still here leaning toward this machine, in this smoke-filled room, this large blue trashcan to my left full of empty containers. the doctors have no answers and the gods are silent.
congratulations, death, on your patience. I have helped you all that I can. now, one more poem and a walk out on the balcony, such a fine night there. I am dressed in shorts and stockings, gently scratch my old belly, look out there, look off there where dark meets dark. it's been one hell of a crazy ballgame.
