Howard Firkin
Don’t let me die. Not here. Not where I’ve spent
so many hours of intent in stasis.
The basis of my faith is waiting here,
expecting something to appear and take me,
accept me, shake me, move me to a new
pitch, somewhere with a view, a clear view—not this—
not dying here, my money in my hand.
I planned a different trip today. I had
a dream to get away. I had the means
of getting there: as dreams go, pretty small.
Was that the problem, after all? My bum
is sore. The bus will come and I will go.
I know the choice I have is to believe
or not. Don’t let me die here. Let me leave.
so many hours of intent in stasis.
The basis of my faith is waiting here,
expecting something to appear and take me,
accept me, shake me, move me to a new
pitch, somewhere with a view, a clear view—not this—
not dying here, my money in my hand.
I planned a different trip today. I had
a dream to get away. I had the means
of getting there: as dreams go, pretty small.
Was that the problem, after all? My bum
is sore. The bus will come and I will go.
I know the choice I have is to believe
or not. Don’t let me die here. Let me leave.
