HOME SICK

today
with bleeding pockets
and a busted-up heart.
Both conditions
are my fault.
I've been a very
unwise man
much of my life.

Of course,
I've been broke
and out of love
before. I've also
been younger.
This morning,
my blood sugar
read over 400
and my stomach
churned and pained me.
My head was fuzzy
and my eyes unfocused.
I couldn't afford
to stay home from work,
but I did.
At this point
I no longer panic about much--
I just do what's in front of me,
expect it to work,
but know it won't.
Until it does.
Which is always
a surprise.

I knew I'd get the sugar down
and things would clear
as if by magic.
The other two conditions,
"work" and "love",
never obeyed
my magical thinking
probably because
I couldn't titrate them
as I do my insulin.

The day will unfold
as it always does
and I'll use it
as I choose:
finish this poem,
shop for toilet paper
and other necessities,
read and try to work
on other poems.
At one time,
every day I didn't punch
a time-card
was considered
a victory,
now not so much.
And when I wasn't shacked-up
with a babe or "in love" with a love,
I had my dead lovers: booze and dope
for company and comfort.
And sometimes,
I had all of them
at the same time--
what an orgy
of pleasure!

Now
there are wisps
of images thinning
into the air
like cigarette smoke.
My god,
how I still enjoy
smoking.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013