I don’t want to hear it
from anyone this morning.

Not the dog, nor the mailman.
Not Ed across the street
who smokes cigarettes
at the window all day.

And certainly not anyone
who loves me, cares where
my body ends up one day.

We’ve all got excuses. Okay.
Myself included. On days like
this, I’d like to drift away
like the dog in its dreams;
lost mail destined to never reach
its intended destination; smoke
exiting an old man’s lungs.
This is an excuse, too.

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