Don’t speak of it, no one knows
I’m slowly dying, not a regular death.
You know the kind, family gathered
you show them the event of their lives.
They cry. It’s working you see, eyes gobbling
the back of your sockets. Wow!
Grandpa’s going out with a bang and a twang.
No, not that kind. My death will be bookmarked
by wheezing and whistling of my lungs.
No one will watch. That’s okay you see.
My crooked crab apple will soothe its only friend
hiding its happiness from the humming birds,
friends that never hover near a dying wasp.