The Torn-Up Gut

Drowsy to the point
Of narcolepsy,
Nodding off upright,

But with a constant
Ache in the belly
And a frequent cough.

It’s not the cancer,
Not yet, but what’s left
Of the suffering

Of the surgery
To slice the tumor
And much around it

Out of the guts, then
To resew the guts
To work anyway.

They don’t. Not really.
Enough for a life.
Not enough to live

Like life’s a normal
Thing for this body
To do with itself.

So it stumbles on,
Dozing off, coughing,
Repulsed by most food

It needs to survive.
If there were a pill
To just forget it,

Just forget the crud
Settled like a brick
In the torn-up gut,

Living or dying,
But in contentment,
Not a narcotic,

Just a forget it,
That would be the best.
Give these poems a rest.