He endures the phalanx of tests,
the sort of prodding he has been
avoiding all his life.
He finds no discomfort
in dying for another
yet the chore of cleaning
up his own corpse
he finds so completely distasteful.
He finds it ironic and humorous,
lost of all its patina of greenish foam,
the classical age long gone.
He stares into the mirror
and looks at the sleeping pills.
such powerful little pistils they are,
the gift or humankind's work.
With a violent crack
the mirror shatters and falls
into isosceles triangles in the sink.
Even without his consent
the balance of this universe
holds him in his spin.
(November 5, 2006)