Hock Spit Slurp

THE WAITING ROOM

 

you might think,

this’ll be my last 

Pink Lady,

the teeth, yellowing,

unconsciously carved over the 

years,

crunching solid flesh and

savoring the juice.

 

and what about that time out on the bridge at

3 am

when you dared me to climb up the barrier

and flail my arms about?

good times.

 

there's something lurking in the dark side of my brain

like an incoming aneurism 

or a blow

from some alleyway intrusion.

something not based on a 80’s horror flick

or old-age home visits to grandpa

back when I was prepubescent.

 

you might think, this

could very well be

the last New Yorker cartoon

I ever read