Peach lights in the clouds at dawn and then
A resolutely grey day settled in. The body
On the bed could hardly stir, as if that were
Any excuse in this world. Life is motion, ohoy,
The marriage of flesh and air. This flesh
Had married despair, a bad romantic choice,
But oh well. Mind imagined the body from above,
A discombobulated lump under rumpled covers,
Sweating, shivering, and feverish, a scruffy head
Poking out an old and bulbous nose. It’s hard,
Mind thought to self, to vote in favor of such
A body as this one, crooked and broken,
Careless and barely healed, underpowered,
Overweight, and getting quickly just plain
Old and grey. On top of which, it’s sick today.
But body hadn’t gotten this far by paying
Any mind to mind. Body, slug that it was,
Was the only one who had dragged the whole
Mess out of the icy water and across the frozen mud.
Body was therefore, however pained, unimpressed
By any advice suggesting it should end
Its misery under duress. The grey day alone
Couldn’t keep the flesh, coughing, sagging,
Shivering, heavy from dragging out of bed.
Here we are, someone laughed, and this,
This is what it's like, to live life after you’re dead!
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