I’ve been sick for weeks.

Food has become my frenemy,

devouring breads and meats

through my eyes only.

Taking the meals to my lips

has become a futile feat,

for one crumb on my tongue

makes me heave

and run

to the toilet,

with me embracing it

as I regurgitate

like a mama bird.

I can hardly rise from my bed now.

I trace the veins on my hands,

re-creating my life’s map

with intersections,

freeways

and dead ends.

Hallucinations visit me daily.

I sometimes see my father

sitting at a chair,

silent and nodding there.

Alone in my delirium,

I spy a nightingale

at my window sill.

Shoo, I croak,

can’t you see I’m ill?

It flaps its wings

singing and staring still.

My father points at it

“Son of a bitch” he says

and laughs the laugh

I remember,

the laugh

of Friday night pizzas,

family road trips,

Polish jokes

and songs of Sinatra.

The laugh

that crinkles

the wrinkles

in the corners

of his eyes

and shakes the room.

Broke out of your tomb?

No, I was never there,

he insists.

I was here.

Never there.

I pat his hand.

The nightingale sighs.

See the skies?

That’s where we’ll fly.

*My writings are inspired by the things I find.  Please visit my About page for the link to my ebay store.