The Visitation, Part 1

drum, drum, drum
the thought
binding me to bed in ropes
binding me in tighter knots
like when and why the “visitation” ?
whence my turn to be insensible?
or sensing what? and should I
add the Pharaoh’s touch, a few
childhood toys or those adult–
a prescription of Sildenafil,
say 100 milligrams,
pressed into my
mummified, folded hands?

so on and on and on it goes
such that I get used to it
while death collects the vital first.
why, I’ve outlived Elvis
20 years and with only
fans who think me daft though
 sadly dozens more who’d say,
if pushed to honest eulogy:
“Good! Burn that bitch like Joseph Goebbels!”
and being severely cold natured
a route myself considered not
necessarily to accommodate these adversaries
so much as to
relish the warm room.

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