"A Short Illness"

"A Short Illness"

The obit tells me that she died, 

a poet whose lines were crystalline 

and smoke, after "a short illness"

--the euphemism to end them all.

And now this tickle in my throat:

a swelling of the neck ensues

and I retire to bed, peruse 

a magazine or six and watch 

old films in black and white.  The big 

screen glows across the room.  And I 

fade in and out--my signal fades

just like a distant station--as 

detectives beat up thugs in dim

old rooms.  Their faces sweat and shine 

on nitrate and celluloid:

it's now just 1's and oh's upon 

a plastic disk.  This movie's just 

some glowing phosphors on a screen--

veneer of dull obsidian 

when it's not lit, just stares.

It's I who's lit on Vicodin 

and Aspergum.  But I won't die 

today.  Not yet, no not today.  

Not after a short illness.  No.

The malady of life is long.

The rest is just a euphemism.  

--E. R. O'Neill