I am thinking of

a catalogue poem of sorts

I am thinking of
My best friend of 31 years,
and her father who has days to live
and is unable to swallow,
I instruct her how to use the swab
to prevent the end of life xerostomia
to permit him to speak if he can.
I am thinking of psychomotor agitation.
I am a reluctant psychopomp
4 1/2 hours away teaching about
Kubler-Ross transitions. He is actively 
dying. It reminds me of labor 22 years ago.
Memories of my own time on Haldol 
(brief) and Partial Hospitalization 
in Quakertown Pennsylvania in 1993.
My cowriters cat she is saying 
goodbye to after 21 years.
We have already uploaded 
the children’s book and are in
the problems found hokey-pokey.
You fix one thing and another breaks.
I am thinking about how I feel
about my poetry being 
“an acquired taste” according to a 
living legend of poetry
and another editor who rejects me
asking me for a review 
fearing those who can’t write, critique.
Acquire me, please, please, please!
Only the dose makes the poison pen!
I am signing a contract for a 
poem to a prestigious market.
I am thinking about Greek Choruses
their strange masques, the narrative
purpose of them, their different font.
I am thinking about thinking too much.
I am thinking of my poet friend
flying kites for his late father with
his incredibly talented poet brother.
Poets on the beach with stunt kites.
A moment of joy in all of this.
I am thinking of coffee and sleep
I am thinking of if I am an
“acquired taste” what I taste like.

I decide I’m Ghirardelli chocolate sauce used to mask the blood it’s laced with, 
the corner of the pillow clenched in teeth,
with chocolate sprinkles served over 
a perfectly unripe in a banana split

I am feeling too too much.
Am I failing sideways?
It makes me think too much.