These are My Choices?

The world whirls sickeningly. A man who
Once raced motorcycles dies, hit by some
Dead-brained burgher, off to purchase fish
And chips. The racer's motorcycle might have
Been my own, same make and color. He
Was only ten years older. Will I perish
Likewise someday, head dipped down
Beneath the windscreen, hand grip twisted
To the point where all that is is blurred in
Passing? Possibly, but, in the meantime,
My mom, drugged and ill-disposed toward
Any sort of exercise, collapses on her kitchen
Floor. I'm told she has a broken wrist,
A fractured femur. I am sent a photograph
Of her inside a hospital. She seems okay.
She likes the anesthesia, and she loves
The care that she receives. In truth, I know,
She'd rather stay there, coddled in a bed
Which can go up to imitate a chair, or
Flatten. All she has to do is press a button.
She decides. That's agency for one who is
Too old to do much more than breathe.
I look at my two motorcycles. One is docile,
Red and, for that reason, like that that poor
Racer may have ridden when he died. The
Other's yellow, lethal, savage, just the thing
To ride when life seems over-long and shitty,
Oddly, at risk, at once, of cessation via heedless
Burgher, or unbearable extension in a sterile room.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 29 times
Written on 2021-11-10 at 16:38

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