Umbrella Leaf

draw in the smoke

and it absconds her lungs in a daze

tarmacadam

and they had to syphon the carbon monoxide away

the men in scrubs and

while she scours her shell clean

where the tone turns from russet to rubicund, reckoning­--

she reckons the flowers

outside of her bedroom window

would actually fit

her small hands and slender shoulders and

so she tallies them down

the fashion in which she counts the specks of sand in her hourglass

and she discovers that it’s difficult to

reassure herself, bolster, when time has passed

and there’s not much handed over

but then she cracks at it again

maybe the doctors could resuscitate an inoperative heart--

or i’d rather flat line

maybe then i’d rest from all the sad poetry,

and the melancholy of it all

i’m not even sad,

rather i’m unhappy--

negating the decadence of it all

because what’s better than feeling like you’re underground

than actually living in it

live as if tomorrow’s gone but

yesterday chases the memories of the present

maybe i’m better off underground

or up in the sky

whatever’s to take in all fervor,

because in all honesty she’d rather throw herself of a cliff

falling

a familiar feeling

oxidation

she breathes

through the glass pipes

maybe i’ve filled coffee cups to the top

or messed up the icing on every cake i make

or even skip each breath

and i hope i’m not bothering you

but maybe i’ve lived a good life