From The Loft

Look at me here.
I must be dying.
It's as though both kinds of consumption have slowed me.
Still, it almost could be blissful here in this heat.
Here in this heat.
That child, of a morning.
For no good reason screams.
And just when the trains had ceased to bother me.
Just let me lie - oh, God, a few more moments.
Look at them here.
They're not even trying.
Does every kind of cretin have to pretend that I'm breathing?
Oh, the introductions.
The making light of a heavy silence.
And without any sharp cutlery.
Onward pen.
You ruinous.
You wretched thing.
I keep doing these drafts over and over again.
Who would love me for my dying?
Who would listen?
At least I don't lie.
Not for you, I wouldn't.