What a Way to Go

there are four-hundred and

fifty dimples in the

beige ceiling tile in the

far corner of my cold

 

lips, chapped, longing for a—

just one, need one; right now 

 

windowed office, door closed.

wall clock ticks, wristwatch ticks—

unsynchronized; discord.

my fingers drum.  sixteen

 

hours since my last defeat;

trying; failing, always

 

letters on my scotch tape

dispenser: “corporate

express.” my knees spasm,

my feet, neck eyes cannot

 

stop—succumb; always just

one sweet relief: silence.

 

concentrate.  my square jaw

tears at a pathetic

excuse for chewing gum.

insignificant, useless

 

efforts to end my bad

habit; never ending.

 

like my secretary,

who bought it; left it on

my ugly desk with a

note and a smile.  the next

 

five minutes feel like hours—

can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t quit

 

day, it was a box of

patches, for my arms, chest:

“discreet,” she says.  “easy,”

“totally convenient,”

 

for anyone else, not

for me; I need the real

 

“it says so on the box,”

she tells me, naïve and

maddeningly hopeful.

I don’t need these stupid

 

things; they satisfy, calm.

glorious fixation—

 

substitutes; they can’t

pacify my hunger.

an undying urge to

scream, snap—all consuming

 

like freedom: an escape.

I only need just one

 

rage, edginess compels

me to give in; noises

too loud, harsh: misery.

I get up, give up my

 

last battle, surrender

comes—finally, at last.

 

mediocre efforts;

I make my way downstairs—

outside: liberating

warmth.  I light up, just one

 

more failure: another

defeat—exhale, blow smoke.

 

for now, another at

noon—before lunch, after

lunch, as soon as I’m off.

I’ll try harder next time.

 

…put it on my tombstone.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:  This piece has been published in the 2009 edition of the Paradise Review, and is not to be copied, borrowed from, or redistributed by anyone at any time.