There’s a crack in my window. I see the chipped glass
when I lay naked in bed, when the nights are long with
the usual symptoms of not feeling well.
At the office I say, Yes Dr. It’s the same; stomach cramps,
vertigo, throwing up and shitting more than I
eat.
She’ll tell me, Well, are you still drinking?
and I’ll say, Well, I haven’t been quitting.
She’ll give me vitamins and pills and balms and she’ll
say, Lay off the smoking too, before you’re gone.
I’ll think, tomorrow will be better, today’s just a bad day
in a worse month, during the worst year and on the way
back, I’ll pick up the same cigarettes and a six-pack and
I’ll watch the crack in my window.
The cigarettes will taste awful, and the beer hollow, I’ll
feel like shit, at the end of my wit and I’ll say this time,
that’s it, for real – I’ll quit.
The other day, a dung fly came in,
through the small crack in the glass of the window.
Likely attracted by the stink of bile and spilled pinot.
The dumb fly couldn’t get back out the crack and it
buzzed loud, smacked the window like a maniac.
More came and more didn’t leave. When I called the
doctor to tell her the vitamins and pills didn’t fill
the crack, a pigeon crashed into the window and turned
the slit narrow, into an entire bird-sized hole.
I’ll call the office again tomorrow,
and fix the hole while I’m at it,
tomorrow.