The Last Act Is An Elephant

I didn’t realize
until now that the
elephant in the room
was actually on my chest
curled up like a monstrous
cat, batting my face
with his hoof.
He’s been too big to see
to notice, some trick of the eye,
a subconscious blocking, but
what a relief
to know that it’s
just his trunk
that’s been pushing
my esophagus in the whole time
and the pain in my chest
is coming from the outside
but still, I keep coughing,
my ribcage rattling
all the compound nouns
stuck in the bronchi
all the real words, the tough ones
stuck inside my belly
refusing to be digested
like corn
and some nights
I get drunk enough
to stick a hand in my mouth
tickle my uvula, finger it
like it was a sex organ
and not a trap door
but nothing comes out but liquid
and what I want
are the words to end this
gracefully
I’ve been eating
Alphabet soup, waiting
for all the letters
to form the right apology
In my gut and I can extract them
carefully, like a surgeon,
with a baby spoon,
scoop out this terrible
finale, this last act,
the death scene,
the one where we both die
and then get resurrected,
hopefully, if this whole damn thing
really is a comedy, because
sometimes you say things
that are so accurate
I have to start laughing
like when you said I was
probably looking for someone else

---
(k)