The windows want washing,
the floor needs to be swept.
Dishes clutter the sink,
and my morning has begun.
The cat is playing, rushing
here and there in a frenzy
of chaotic feline energy.
I'm terminal. That is the
word I've avoided so far.
Coming to terms with
the finality of existence.
Terminal. Dying.
Dying. Terminal.
The phone rings and I
rush to answer it. Some
friend who wants to chat.
See how my day is going.
We chatter and promise
to get together soon.
Avoid the topic of the day.
The prognosis delivered
like a lukewarm pizza on
a foggy summer afternoon.
The chores are done. I feel
a sense of pleasure that I
can sit down in my chair.
Sip from my cup of coffee.
Drop an Ibuprofen into
my eager mouth, swallow it.
That will fix everything,
of that I'm assured.
Terminal. What an odd
sound that is to make.
They have provided me
a definition to aspire to.
A state of being that is
mine and mine alone.
As a boy I played with toys.
As a man I want to do so again.
Start fresh. Make different choices.
Renew and rejuvenate this
cancer ridden body that
surely does not belong to me.
Close my ears to voices that
say 'oh, I know how you feel.'
'No, you don't, ' I whisper.
'You who are indefinite
can not really understand
the message of a definite
time left to open your eyes.'
Terminal.
Terminal.
Terminal.
Isn't it funny how the sun
still rises in the morning
and sets in the evening?