my throat is fit for drinking,
bruised and bandaged,
and taped around.
drinking straw with fluid
bubbling over like an unwatched pot.
but this one doesn’t need
watching over.
it just gets depressing.
like watching an old cat die.
an old friend you forgot
had whimpered in closets
and under beds with dust bunnies
burrowed underneath.
picturesque, a pregraduate
corpse, stiffened on an olive cot
awaits withdrawal
of poison or of life.
the trachea reacts defensively;
saliva, yellow and brown fluids
bubble out while the throat hardens
until it can contract no longer.
hands grasp for the last
gasp. sweat-soaked hands tighten
on cotton sheets.
the ordeal is over.
perspiration reeks.
death oppresses the air.