Waiting with Macmow

Like waiting for a poem to form,
I watch your exhales escape you.
Nothing now but the frame of you.
Nothing now but the rhythm of death:
slow beats and fast breath.

Your sounds mimic the moans of labor
and so I scoop you up onto my lap
and try to follow your breath, panting
with you now, while we wait
for the final push.

I watch his hands dance
over the master card
arced like a wave, crushing
rock into the fine white line.


Now on my second drink.
Now on his second wind.
I'm holding my six pack
like a suitcase, searching
for something stronger.