I should not have lasted this long underground. I cause cancer in helpless old fathers. I cause dementia in abandoned mothers. I walked away from my sisters handcuffed to trees in grey light of falling sky.

Sometimes young women come to me and wonder about all the personalities I have set on shuffle. I quietly sip their light until they are empty and limp away. I buried my telephone in a shallow grave.

Someone is building a hospital for me up in the fog. My recovery will somehow include pills, tv dinners, and windows that look further in than out. That's not recovery, is it? Please tell me this isn't such a hard floor to hit!

Please tell me there's something better than dying alone in the liquor store parking lot, my last poems taped to the light poles.