There is nothing left in me, nothing left inside my head or insides that I can give. What is a heart if it is dead? What use are arms that are bloodless? Tell me that I am useful, useful for something more than sweeping up, or washing another dish or two. Tell me I am your smile, I am your sun on blue beach, I am your breeze lifting up the red autumn leaves.
I lie in bed with me head still attached to my neck and wonder when the head will fall off. Would constant shaking speed up the process. Though the thought is stupid, silly nonsense. You can get a face transplant, why not a head transplant.
When it rains, it sings, slow and soft at first like the sweet tune of a violin. Then the bass and clarinet enter as the rain increases and you splish-splash in the puddles as you swing your arms and shout in rain.
What is this, a bit of green, a wail of wind, the bat sounds of wings, the window-light in a corner of dark damp house that spotlights a green root sprouting out of a crack.
Perhaps a beach lives inside me, a bit of sand, a blue white framed wave, a laughing gull, a sun-field horizon. I will never know - perhaps they will find it when I die and they cut me open.
Today will be sweet. Today will be sun-filled- cups of smiles, a warm coat on a cold bitter day.