Almost A Sonnet
My drug of choice is food, while my wife
prefers the smoky kiss of cigarettes.
We have a truce now, whereby I don't nag her:
she more or less leaves me alone, as well.
That seems the best—respect the person
to make choices. I can't see, of course,
beyond today's horizon. Consequences
await us, statistically, around the bend,
although there always seem to be a few
who slip somehow past statistics' tentacles.
My mental calculus of today's enjoyment
depends on my forgetfulness of tomorrow—
we're ostriches. Yes, we all will die,
but when, and how? I'm writing this to shout
what I've been whispering, inside, so long, about.