It came with no warning.
You’d laugh.
Toughen up
you’d say,
so I held
my bruises
close,
and they
were only
mine.
Till old age
restrained you
with tubes
and warning beeps.
In your stupor,
I could see
your paper thin
skin
thicken black
with karma.
And if you thought
I could hold back
my tears,
you’d be wrong.
Again.
The Etch-a-Sketch
could draw me in
enticing my flexing fingers
to anticipate the feeling
of the erratic twisting
of its creamy knobs.
Hours would pass
before my neck would lift
in a final decision
to wipe it all clean
by flipping it over
and shaking it senseless.
My desire to leave
my artistic mark
with those jagged lines
of metallic entrails
retracing my thoughts
was again proven worthless.
A hundred and one things
compile today;
my back yields to the weight
of all of them.
Yet, my cat must be hugged.
My fingers deep,
press her close
till my breath slows
to her softening purrs.
Yet, my poem must be written
before I sleep.
Digging deep
I try to leave my mark
as blood is seeping
from her scratch on my thigh.