The winter pushes on my heart and

I know

there’s something mean coming.

The good men get bad sick

and we hurt for more time that won’t be

in our cities far away,

chasing money and success

to make you proud.

Pride and success and money won’t take

the cancer out of kidneys,

or make the heart work right again,

but I’ll keep stuffing it in and failing you

while it takes my best years.

Cut it, break it

and lay in it,

the damage done.

A Sick heart into broken

sternum

and the bones do heal

but the man never does.

‘Babe,

I`m leaving,’

the song you met mom to.

Imagine she could see your broken heart then,

in that wretched disco,

sternum wide open and

you can’t even swallow soup right.

Everyone signs up to see their lover fade,

by slow destructive blows

or almost all at once,

even if we can’t admit it to ourselves.

The lucky ones have 80 good years,

and your nine lives started early

but have dwindled away.

Do you have a good few years left?

Can you take it for another decade,

or maybe, greedily, two?

I’m not ready to lose you, dad,

please don’t tell mom you’re leaving.