Convenience

there’s a bar with a stool for me
that I can’t get to easily.
I must overcome too many adversities:
all my knuckles hurt, ache really,
and my back is stabbing me and twisting the knife,
plus I found a lump near my spine;
I hope it’s a spider bite,
further, my neck won’t straighten
and my skin is burning.
there’s a medicine just down the road
and I can’t get to it easily.
The opportunities are overwhelming:
I can’t bear the feel of human words
slapping me around in separation,
the light-hearted chit-chat
is sand paper in my throat,
both my legs are broken
because of my heart;
precision is an art that no woman has.
There’s death right here at home
that’s almost no effort at all.