Tried to unfurl my poetic wings this morning
but couldn’t think of nothing other than seeing my doctor this afternoon.
He’s so serious
lips curling down like he has found something in my innards
too disgusting for words.
Today he wants me to walk on a treadmill
to see how fit I’m
Oscar Wilde did that and wrote a ballad about it,
fearing only a flashing light so bright
that lives streets will have
neither illusion nor shadows.
A petrified blaze so intense
that roses will be transparent
yet unseen a contour less world
where oil wells will gush
covering seas with a carpet of shining rainbow slush!
can’t tell the doctor
that he’ll only give me a pill for it.