Spare Me This Dying Slowly

I sit and do not taste the lump of potatoes rimmed in red paprika

I ignore the instant chocolate pudding and the shredded, iceberg lettuce salad

The dry, pale pressed chicken cutlet lays beached on my plastic plate.

I stare out the window of a world I once was part of

The store I shopped at, the construction at the dealership, the coffee cart

I watch the workers and drivers as an alien insect species, and marvel at their abilities.

How is this possible? The window slowly fogs from the rancid breath of the unwashed teeth

and coughing

The world disappears. I look around and this is my world. Dying slowly. Too slowly to take a measure

other than by thermometer and pulse-oximeter.

Make it quick this transition. I am tired of the waiting.

The singsongy words of the attendants, unsoothing.

Let the blood flow out and down and at least be useful again– as food.

Let it feed and be. I offer this up as my own meal to be useful and needed, again.

Spare me this dying slowly.