Heroin

I never took it…I always wanted to.

Now would be the perfect time in my

life….nohing much left to waste.

Those poor folks with dementia,

Alzenheimers, wasted and not

even a bit of fun, a bit of relief.

Would I rather die on a toilet,

a needle in my arm? To be or

not to be? Isn’t that the 

overwhelming question?

Shall I part my hair behind?

Do I dare to eat a peach?

Do I slip into old age, 

clinging to a dying animal? 

I probably won’t know

what hit me….

Maybe I’m beginning to

see the light…heroin was

always on my team…

wine in the morning…

breakfast at night..

“Storm ahead..furl the sails!”

Flaring, sudden, unexpected

death, I didn’t live this long

to let this life get out of hand.

Take it to the river bed…I got 

a line

on what’s ahead…fresh garbage

(see what I did there?) Is this even

writing, or, the beginning of

hyperplasticecondroplasia? I’m 

just asking.

Yeah, what’s this? A poem?

Or, just what I do ’till I can’t

do anything more?