Posts Tagged ‘breath


7 A.M. 23 Degrees

I am Smaug and you are some other dragon.
We are wondering who has disturbed our rest,
Luring us to this wild and desolate spot-
At the end of the driveway-
Where we consume passing cars with our steaming breath.


Sunday 130

Startled awake.
I lie in the dark room
A minute,
Two minutes.
Tiptoeing to the door,
I step into the hallway and listen.
Oh my child, the sound of your slow, steady breathing reassures me
As much tonight as when I stood by your crib
Sixteen years ago.



Your breath
is wasted on
words. Words change nothing…now
Let’s find something else to do with
Your mouth.


The Morning After The Morning After The Migraine

And I’m still feeling a little stoned.
I didn’t enjoy this a quarter century ago when it involved a bong,
Fried frozen pizza, and an exterminator;
I’m liking it even less now.
It’s not pot this time; it’s Promethazine and I have a prescription.
As long as you have a prescription it’s fine.
Ha! Isn’t that what they always say?
It’s an anti-nausea drug but now I’m wondering
If throwing up might have been better.
Promethazine takes away most of the urge but the pain stays.
And you’re foggy for two days after.
Vomiting hurts like hell at the time but the pain, the tension and the fog leave.
It’s like your whole system gets flushed along with the toilet.
You wake up the next morning feeling like I did in Mojave.
The air was clear; my head was clear.
There were no jobs but there was no pain.
There were no plants and I could breathe.


Chunky Air

I was vacuuming the kindergarten room
When the asthma attack began.
The doctor would say “mild to moderate” but then they’re not his lungs.
Maybe I should have anticipated…
I’d been coughing off and on for an hour.
But the last was in the spring of 2005
And I’d been walking fast on the side of Mount Hood.
Tonight I was just vacuuming.
You know, pushing the Kleen-Queen around the floor.
Hearing my own thoughts, at last, and an occasional wheeze.
Five minutes later, I’m leaning on a mop handle
Trying to breathe chunky air.
I don’t know what brought it back.
Maybe the difference in climate between classrooms is getting to me.
Maybe working 7½ to 8 hours with a fifteen-minute on the clock break- not a lunch- is getting to me.
(Yeah, it’s illegal. But it’s letting me pay the rent.)
Maybe it’s the stress of knowing I only have two sick days left
And, if I want that better job in two weeks,
I’d best not take them.