Life, you jackbooted brute,
I concede.
I will open my mouth
and let slide
my filleted friends and fellow travelers,
chickens and carrots and such,
down my gagging throat.
I will tilt my face to the sky
and pull hard at the air,
folding my scorched lungs
but not flinching or fighting
the flow of oxygen,
though it makes the fire burn so damn hot.
And water, cool and sweet,
the perfect balm, I will divert
with a sly flap of my epiglottis,
to pool uselessly in my knotted gut.
I will sit on the porch
with Seligman's exhausted pooch,
as the sun casts her shadows across the yard,
and we will wait quietly
for the next jolt.
