I have been tasked with taking six boxes of poetry to Logan.

“You can use my truck,” says my boss, but I’d rather take my car.

“Just make sure you pay yourself for gas.”

The clouds, a loaded fleet of black flurries, roll over the canyon. I’m coughing, and I’m weak, but I must go on. The double dose of Flonase that I took is doing me no favors. It has been helping with my snoring, but it failed last night, so I got kicked in the back, and my immune system fell through.

I’m achy, and I’m shaky.

“Do you have a fever?”

My vision is flashing.

“We’re almost there…”

My blasted arm serves proof that I’m willing to step up and take one for the team. I’ve been dosed with a round of whooping Tetanus. The wound is throbbing. I’m clutching it as I push apart snow flakes.

The baby is in the twenty second percentile. Lucky number twenty two. She looks out at me from the 3D ultra sound, displaying what I stand to lose.

Musette’s eyes. Musette’s nose. Musette’s face.

I thought I’d take it better. I pretend not to care. It’s gotten so serious in exactly the ways that I thought that it could but didn’t believe it would.

“Please eat.”

It’s like I have aids.

Musette takes care of me. I’m being squeezed around the heart again. I’m trying not to complain. Not out loud. I can’t stop thinking that it’s my gall bladder. I need to shut up about it around my wife.

I just went to the doctors but forgot to mention it, bringing up, however, my affinity for Sons of Baconators and how they’ve got to be better for me than the regular Baconators.

This made him laugh.

“If I had a clipboard for my favorite daily sayings,” he says “this would be at the top.”

Give the baby all of your energy. Die gracefully. My grandmother has nothing left to give. Carlton can only give so much. Obviously Musette. It’s my time to pray. So much has happened that I’ve been away from. I’m losing my grip on reality. It is slipping away in the form of monotony and routine.

I’m supposed to be posting to social media everyday. That’s what the accountant tells me. She’s upset that I didn’t respond to somebody’s Facebook message. What’s the point?


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